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"Ill",     IIKLI)    Ul'    THE    SHOE    WITH    GREAT    DISFAVOR"— Pa^^?  138 


IN  THE  DAYS 
OF   THE    GUILD 


EOUC- 
PSYCH. 
LIBRARY 


BY 


L.  LAMPREY 


WITH  FOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOR  BV 

FLORENCE  GARDINER 

AND  NUMEROUS  LINE  DRAWINGS  BY 

MABEL  HATT 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  igi8,  by 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 


All  rights  reserved  including  that  of  translation 
inio  foreign  languages. 


kH/ 


L 

CDUC 
UBKAHt 


To 

MY  FATHER 

HENRY  PHELPS  LAMPREY 


500847 


CONTENTS 


I  PAOB 

The  Old  Road 1 

The  Boy  with  the  Woolpack 3 

How  Robert  Edrupt  journeyed  with  the  wool-merchants 
to  London 

II 

The  Biographer 13 

Basil  the  Scribe 15 

How  an  Irish  monk  in  an  English  Abbey  came  to  stand 
before  Kings 

III 

Venetian  Glass 27 

The  Picture  in  the  Window 29 

How  Alan  of  the  Abbey  Farms  learned  to  make  stained 
glass 

IV 

Troubadour's  Song 41 

The  Grasshoppers'  Library 43 

How  Ranulph  le  Provencal  ceased  to  be  a  minstrel  and 

became  a  troubadour 

V 

The  Wood-Carver's  Vision 55 

The  Box  that  Quentin  Carved 57 

How  Quentin  of  Peronne  learned  his  trade  when  a  boy  in 
Amiens 

VI 

The  Caged  Bonverel f>9 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Gold  Finch 71 

How  Guy,  the  goldsmith's  apprentice,  won  the  desire  of  his 

heart 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

>11  PAGE 

I' p  Anchor 79 

TiiK  Vkntiuk  ok  Nicholas  Gay 81 

How  Nicliolius  Guy,  llic  luoicluint's  sou,  kept  faith  with  a 
struuger  and  served  the  King 

VIII 

Loudou  Hells 93 

Uauhaha,  the  Little  Goose-Girl 95 

How  Barbara  sold  geese  in  the  Chepe  and  what  fortune 

slie  found  lliere 

IX 

liar  per' a  Sung 105 

Richard's  Silver  Penny 107 

How  Ricliard  sold  a  web  of  russet  and  made  the  best  of  a 

})ad  bargain 

X 

Perfumer' n  Song 119 

Mary  Lavender's  Garden 121 

How  Mary  Lavender  came  to  be  of  service  to  an  exiled 

Queen 

XI 

Pavement  Song 131 

Saint  Crispin's  Day 133 

How  Crispin,  the  shoemaker's  son,  made  a  shoe  for  a  little 
damsel,  and  new  streets  in  London 

XII 

Concealed  Weapons 143 

The  Lozenges  op  Giovanni 144 

How  a  Milanese  baker-boy  and  a  Paduan  physician  kept 
poison  out  of  the  King's  dish 

XIII 

A  Song  of  Birds  and  Beasis 157 

A  Dyke  in  the  Danelaw 159 

How  David  le  Saumond  changed  the  course  of  an  ancient 
nuisance 


CONTENTS  vu 

XIV  PAGE 

London  Bridge 173 

At  Bartlemy  Fair 175 

How  Barty  Appleby  went  to  the  fair  at  Smithfield  and 
caught  a  miscreant 

XV 

Midsummer  Day  in  England 187 

Edwitha's  Little  Bowl 189 

How  Edwitha  found  Roman  pottery   in   the  field  of  a 
Sussex  farm 

XVI 

Song  of  the  Tapestry  Weavers 197 

Looms  in  Minchen  Lane 199 

How  Cornelys  Bat,  the  Flemish  weaver,  befriended  a  black 
sheep  and  saved  his  wool 

XVII 

The  Wishing  Carpet 211 

The  Herbalist's  Brew 213 

How  Tomaso,  the  physician  of  Padua,  found  a  cure  for  a 
weary  soul 

XVIII 

The  Marionettes 225 

The  Hurer's  Lodgers 229 

How  the  poppet  of  Joan,  the  daughter  of  the  capmaker, 
went  to  court  and  kept  a  secret 

XIX 

Armorer^s  Song 241 

Dickon  at  the  Forge 243 

How  a  Sussex  smith  found  the  world  come  to  him  in  the 

Weald 

XX 

The  Wander-Years ^5 

The  Wings  of  the  Dragon 257 

How  Padraig  made  Irish  wit  a  journeyman  to  Florentine 
genius 


VIU 


CONTENTS 


XXI  PAGE 

St.  FAois  Blessing 269 

CtOLD  OF  Byzantium 271 

How  Guy  of  Liinogctf   taught  the  art  of  Byzantium  to 

Wilfrid  of  Sussex 

XXII 

The  Watchword 281 

CocKATUicE  Eggs 283 

How  Tomaso  the  physician  and  Basil  the  scribe  held  the 

keys  of  Empire 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"He  held  up  the  shoe  with  great  disfavor"  {in  colors)       Frontisjnece 

FACINQ 

"Waiting  for  the  wool-merchants" 4 

"  'Some  of  us  will  live  to  see  Thomas  of  Canterbury  a  Saint  of 

the  Church'" 21 

"The  medallion  was  a  picture  in  colored  glass" 36 

"'Upon  my  word,  the  race  of  wood-carvers  has  not  yet  come 

to  an  end' " 67 

"'Have  you  been  here  all  this  time?'" 86 

"Barbara  knew  exactly  where  to  go"  (zn  co/or*)        ....  96 

"  'It  is  time  to  set  him  building  for  England' "...      .      .  168 

"'How  beautiful  it  is!'  he  exclaimed"  {in  colors)       ....  194 

"Tomaso  seemed  not  to  have  seen  her  action" 216 

"The  Marionettes" 224 

"'It  is  better  than  the  sketch,' he  cried  heartily"     ....  246 

"  'And  there  goes  what  would  seat  the  King  of  England  on  the 

throne  of  the  Caesars,'  quoth  Tomaso"  {in  colors)       .      .      .  284 


IX 


THE  OLD  ROAD 

The  horse-bells  come  a-tinkling  by  the  shoulder  of  the  Down, 
The  bell  of  Bow  is  ringing  as  we  ride  to  Londcai  Town. 
O  the  breath  of  the  wet  salt  marshes  by  Romney  port  is  sweet, 
But  sweeter  the  thyme  of  the  uplands  under  the  horses'  feet ! 

It's  far  afield  I'm  faring,  to  the  lands  I  do  not  know, 

For  the  merchant  doth  not  prosper  save  he  wander  to  and  fro. 

Yet  though  the  foreign  cities  be  stately  and  fair  to  see. 

It's  an  English  home  on  an  English  down,  and  my  own  lass  for  me ! 


4  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

came  b\  il  they  would  not  take  him  with  them  to  London. 
Now  he  was  waiting,  as  near  the  road  as  he  could  get,  listen- 
in^:  hard  tor  the  tinkle  of  their  horse-bells  around  the  shoulder 
of  the  down. 

The  road  would  not  really  be  called  a  road  to-day.  It  was 
a  track,  trodden  out  about  half  way  up  the  slope  of  the 
valley  in  some  parts  of  it,  and  now  and  then  running  along 
the  top  of  the  long,  low  hills  that  have  been  called  downs 
as  long  as  the  memor)'  of  man  holds  a  trace  of  them.  Some- 
times it  would  make  a  sharp  twist  to  cross  the  shallows  of  a 
btream,  for  there  were  scarcely  any  bridges  in  the  country.  In 
some  places  it  was  wide  enough  for  a  regiment,  and  but  faintly 
marked;  in  others  it  was  bitten  deep  into  the  hillside  and  so 
narrow  that  three  men  could  hardly  have  gone  abreast  upon  it. 
But  it  did  not  need  to  be  anything  more  than  a  trail,  or  bridle- 
path, because  no  wagons  went  that  way, — only  travelers  afoot 
or  a-horseback.  At  some  seasons  there  would  be  wayfarers  all 
along  the  road  from  early  in  the  morning  until  sunset,  and 
they  would  even  be  found  camping  by  the  wayside;  at  other 
times  of  the  year  one  might  walk  for  hours  upon  it  and  meet 
nobody  at  all.  Robert  had  been  sitting  where  he  was  for  about 
three  hours;  and  he  had  \valked  between  four  and  five  miles, 
woolpack  on  shoulder,  before  he  reached  the  road ;  he  had  risen 
before  the  sun  did  that  morning.  Now  he  began  to  wonder  if 
the  wool-merchants  had  already  gone  by.  It  was  late  in  the 
season,  and  if  they  had,  there  was  hardly  any  hope  of  send- 
ing the  wool  to  market  that  year. 

But  worry  never  worked  aught,  as  the  saying  is,  and  people 
who  take  care  of  sheep  seem  to  worry  less  than  others;  there 
are  many  things  that  they  carmot  change,  and  they  are  kept 


WAITING   FOR  THE    WOOL-MERCHANTS' 


6  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

busy  attending  to  their  flocks.  Robert,  who  did  not  intend  to 
be  called  Hob  any  more,  took  from  his  pouch  some  coarse 
bread  and  cheese  and  began  munching  it,  for  by  the  sun  it 
was  the  dinner-hour- — nine  o'clock.  Meanwhile  he  made  sure 
that  the  silver  penny  in  the  corner  of  the  pouch,  which  hung 
at  his  girdle  and  served  him  for  a  pocket,  was  safe.  It  was. 
It  was  about  the  size  of  a  modern  halfpenny  and  had  a  cross 
on  one  side.  A  penny  such  as  this  could  be  cut  in  quarters, 
and  each  piece  passed  as  a  coin. 

Just  as  the  last  bit  of  bread  and  cheese  vanished  there  came, 
from  far  away  over  the  fern,  the  jingle-jink-jing  of  strings  of 
bells  on  the  necks  of  pack-horses.  A  few  minutes  later  the 
shaggy  head  and  neck  of  the  leader  came  in  sight.  They  were 
strong,  not  very  big  horses;  and  while  they  were  not  built  for 
racing,  they  were  quick  walkers.  They  could  travel  over 
rough  country  at  a  very  good  pace,  even  when,  as  they  now 
were,  loaded  heavily  with  packs  of  wool.  Robert  stood  up, 
his  heart  beating  fast :  he  had  never  seen  them  so  close  before. 
The  merchants  were  laughing  and  talking  and  seemed  to  be 
in  a  good  humor,  and  he  hoped  very  much  that  they  would 
speak  to  him. 

"Ho!"  said  the  one  who  rode  nearest  to  him,  "here's  an- 
other, as  I  live.  Did  you  grow  out  of  the  ground,  and  have 
you  roots  like  the  rest  of  them,  bumpkin"?" 

Robert  bowed;  he  was  rather  angry,  but  this  was  no  time 
to  answer  back.  "I  have  wool  to  sell,  so  please  you,"  he 
said,  "and — and — if  you  be  in  need  of  a  horse-boy,  I  would 
work  my  passage  to  London." 

The  man  who  had  spoken  frowned  and  pulled  at  his  beard, 
but  the  leader,  who  had  been  talking  to  some  one  behind  him, 


THE  BOY  WITH  THE  WOOLPACK  7 

now  turned  his  face  toward  Robert.  He  was  a  kindly-looking, 
ruddy-cheeked  old  fellow,  with  eyes  as  sharp  as  the  stars  on 
a  winter  night  that  is  clear. 

"Hum  I"  he  said  genially.  "Who  are  you,  and  why  are  you 
so  fond  to  go  to  London,  young  sheep-dog?" 

Robert  told  his  story,  as  short  and  straight  as  he  could,  for 
he  could  see  that  some  of  the  merchants  were  impatient.  This 
was  only  one  pack  of  wool,  and  at  the  next  market-town  they 
would  probably  find  enough  to  load  all  the  rest  of  their  train 
of  horses,  when  they  could  push  straight  on  to  London  and 
get  their  money.  "If  you  desire  to  know  further  of  what  I 
say,"  the  boy  ended  his  speech,  "the  landlord  of  the  Wool- 
pack  will  tell  you  that  our  fleeces  are  as  fine  and  as  heavy  as 
any  in  the  market,  so  please  you,  master." 

"Hum  I"  the  wool-merchant  said  again,  "Give  him  one  of 
the  spare  nags,  Gib,  and  take  up  the  pack,  lad,  for  we  must  be 
getting  on.  What  if  I  find  thee  a  liar  and  send  thee  back 
from  the  inn,  hey'?" 

"If  I  be  a  liar,  I  will  go,"  said  Robert  joyfully,  and  he 
climbed  on  the  great  horse,  and  the  whole  company  went 
trotting  briskly  onward. 

Robert  found  in  course  of  time,  however,  that  when  we 
have  got  what  we  want,  it  is  not  always  what  we  like  most 
heartily.  He  had  been  on  a  horse  before,  but  had  never 
ridden  for  any  length  of  time,  and  riding  all  day  long  on  the 
hard-paced  pack-horses  over  hill  and  valley  was  no  play.  Then, 
when  they  reached  the  town,  and  the  merchants  began  to 
joke  and  trade  with  the  shepherds  who  had  brought  in  their 
wool  for  market-day,  and  all  the  people  of  the  inn  were  bust- 
ling about  getting  supper,  he  had  to  help  Gib  and  Jack,  the 


8  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

horse-boys,  to  nil-)  clown  tho  horses,  take  off  their  packs,  and 
teed  and  water  thrm.  He  nearly  got  into  a  terrible  pickle 
for  not  knowin;j;  that  )  on  must  not  water  a  horse  that  has  been 
traveling  tor  hours  until  it  has  had  at  least  half  an  hour  to 
rest  and  cool  off.  When  he  tinally  did  get  his  supper,  a  bowl 
of  hot  stew  and  some  bread  and  cheese, — and  extremely  good 
it  tasted, — it  was  time  for  bed.  He  and  the  other  serving- 
huls  had  to  sleej)  on  the  woolpacks  piled  in  the  open  courtyard 
of  the  inn,  which  was  built  in  a  hollow  square, — two-story 
buildings  and  stables  around  the  square  court  where  the  horses 
and  baggage  were  left.  This  did  not  trouble  Robert,  how- 
ever. He  had  slept  on  the  open  hillside  more  than  once,  and 
it  was  a  clear  night;  he  could  see  Arthur's  Wain  shining  among 
the  other  stars,  and  hear  the  horses,  not  far  away,  contentedly 
champing  their  grain. 

The  next  morning  he  woke  up  lame  and  weary,  but  that 
wore  off  after  a  time.  Nobody  in  the  company  paid  atten- 
tion to  aching  muscles;  what  was  occupying  the  minds  of  the 
traffickers  was  the  fear  of  getting  the  wool  to  London  too  late 
to  secure  their  price  for  it.  Italian  and  Flemish  merchants 
had  their  agents  there,  buying  up  the  fleeces  from  the  great 
flocks  of  the  abbe}  s,  and  Master  Hardel  had  taken  his  com- 
pany further  west  than  usual,  this  year.  No  stop  would  be 
made  after  this,  except  to  eat  and  sleep,  for  the  horses  were 
now  loaded  with  all  that  they  could  carry. 

On  the  second  night,  it  rained,  and  every  one  was  wet, — 
not  as  wet  as  might  be  supposed,  however,  considering  that 
no  umbrellas  and  no  rubber  coats  existed.  Each  man  wore  in- 
stead of  a  hat  a  pointed  hood,  with  a  cape,  the  front  turned 
back  from  his  eyes.    By  folding  the  cape  around  him  he  could 


THE  BO\    WITH  THE  WOOLPACK  9 

keep  off  the  worst  of  the  rain,  for  the  cloth  had  a  shag^7  nap, 
and  was  close-woven  as  well.  On  legs  and  feet  were  long 
woolen  hose  which  dried  when  the  sun  came  out;  and  some 
had  leathern  tunics  under  their  cloaks. 

It  was  rather  jolly  on  the  road,  even  in  the  rain.  The  dark- 
bearded  man,  who  was  called  Jeffrey,  knew  numberless  tales 
and  songs,  and  when  he  could  turn  a  jest  on  any  of  the  party 
he  invariably  did.  No  one  took  any  especial  notice  of  Robert, 
except  that  the  man  called  Gib  shifted  as  much  of  his  own 
work  on  him  as  possible,  and  sometimes,  when  they  were  rid- 
ing in  the  rear,  grumbled  viciously  about  the  hard  riding  and 
small  pay.  There  is  usually  one  person  of  that  sort  in  any 
company  of  travelers. 

Robert  minded  neither  the  hard  work  nor  Gib's  scolding. 
He  was  as  strong  as  a  young  pony,  and  he  was  seeing  the  world, 
of  which  he  had  dreamed  through  many  a  long,  thyme-scented 
day  on  the  Downs,  with  soft  little  noises  of  sheep  cropping 
turf  all  about  him  as  he  lay.  What  London  would  be  like  he 
could  not  quite  make  out,  for  as  yet  he  had  seen  no  town  of 
more  than  a  thousand  people. 

At  last,  near  sunset,  somebody  riding  ahead  raised  a  shout 
and  flung  up  his  arm,  and  all  knew  that  they  were  within 
sight  of  London — London,  the  greatest  cit}-  in  England,  with 
more  than  a  hundred  churches  inside  its  towered  city  wall. 
They  pushed  the  horses  hard,  hoping  to  reach  the  New  Gate 
before  eight  o'clock,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  They  were  still 
nearly  a  mile  from  the  walls  when  the  far  sound  of  bells 
warned  them  that  they  were  too  late.  They  turned  back  and 
stayed  their  steps  at  an  inn  called  the  Shepherd's  Bush,  out 
on  the  road  to  the  west  country  over  which  the  drovers  and 


lo  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

the  packmen  came.  A  long  pole  over  the  door  had  on  its  end 
a  bunch  of  green  boughs  and  red  berries — the  "bush"  told  them 
that  ale  was  to  be  had  within.  The  landlord  was  a  West 
Countf)-  man,  and  Robert  found  to  his  joy  that  the  landlord's 
old  father  had  known  Colin  Edru})t  the  shepherd  and  Dame 
Lysbcth,  and  danced  at  their  wedding,  nearly  half  a  century 
before. 

Next  morning,  with  the  sun  still  in  their  eyes  as  they  trotted 
briskly  Londonward,  they  came  to  the  massive  gray  wall, 
with  the  Fleet,  a  deep  swift  river,  flowing  down  beside  it 
to  the  Thames.  They  were  waiting  outside  New  Gate  when 
the  watchmen  swung  open  the  great  doors,  and  the  crowd  of 
travelers,  traders  and  country  folk  began  to  push  in.  The  men 
with  the  woolpacks  kept  together,  edging  through  the  narrow 
streets  that  sloped  downward  to  the  river  where  the  tall  ships 
were  anchored.  The  jingle  of  the  bridle-bells,  that  rang  so 
loud  and  merrily  over  the  hills,  was  quite  drowned  out  in  the 
racket  of  the  city  streets  where  armorers  were  hammering, 
horsemen  crowding,  tradesmen  shouting,  and  business  of  every 
sort  was  going  on.  Robert  had  somehow  supposed  that  Lon- 
don would  be  on  a  great  level  encircled  by  hills,  but  he  found 
with  surprise  that  it  was  itself  on  a  hill,  crowned  by  the 
mighty  cathedral  St.  Paul's,  longer  than  Winchester,  with  a 
steeple  that  seemed  climbing  to  pierce  the  clouds.  At  last 
the  shaggy  laden  horses  came  to  a  halt  at  a  warehouse  by  the 
river,  where  a  little,  dried-up-looking  man  in  odd  garments 
looked  the  wool  over  and  agreed  with  Master  Hardel  on  the 
price  which  he  would  pay.  Robert  could  not  understand  a 
word  of  the  conversation,  for  the  wholesale  merchant  was  a 
Hollander  from  Antwerp,  and  when  he  had  loaded  his  ship 


THE  BOY  WITH  THE  WOOLPACK  1 1 

with  the  wool  it  would  go  to  Flanders  to  be  made  into  fine 
cloth.  Robert  was  so  busy  watching  the  transactions  that 
when  the  master  spoke  to  him  it  made  him  jump. 

"Here  is  the  money  for  thy  wool,  my  lad,"  the  old  man 
said  kindly.  "Hark  'ee,  if  you  choose  to  ride  with  us  again, 
meet  me  at  Shepherd's  Bush  on  the  sixth  day  hence,  and  you 
shall  have  that  good-for-naught  Gib's  place.  And  keep  thy 
money  safe;  this  is  a  place  of  thieves." 

That  was  how  Robert  Edrupt  rode  from  the  West  Country 
and  settled  in  his  mind  that  some  day  he  would  himself  be  a 
wool-merchant. 


THE  BIOGRAPHER 

The   little   green   lizard   on    Solomon's   wall 

Basked  in  the  gold  of  a  shimmering  noon, 
Heard  the  insistent,   imperious  call 

Of  hautboy  and  tabor  and  loud  bassoon, 
When  Balkis  passed  by,  with  her  alien  grace. 
And  the   light  of  wonder  upon   her   face. 
To  sit  by  the  King  in  his  lofty  hall, — 
And  the  little  green  lizard  saw  it  all. 

The  little  green  lizard  on  Solomon's  wall 

Waited   for   flies   the   long  day  through, 
While  the  craftsmen  came  at  the  monarch's  call 

To  the  task  that  was  given  each  man  to  do. 
And  the  Temple  rose  with  its  cunning  wrought  gold. 
Cedar  and  silver,  and  all  it  could  hold 
In  treasure  of  tapestry,  silk  and  shawl, — 
And  the  little  green  lizard  observed  it  all. 

The  little  green  lizard  on  Solomon's  wall 

Heard  what  the  King  said   to  one   alone, 
Secrets  that  only  the  Djinns  may  recall, 

Graved  on  the  Sacred,  Ineffable  Stone. 
And  yet,  when  the  little  green  lizard  was  led 
To  speak  of  the  King,  when  the  King  was  dead, 
He  had  only  kept  count  of  the  flies  on  the  wall, — 
For  he  was  but  a  lizard,  after  all! 


II 

BASIL  THE  SCRIBE 

HOW  AN   IRISH   MONK  IN   AN    ENGLISH   ABBEY  CAME  TO  STAND 

BEFORE    KINGS 

BROTHER  BASIL,  of  the  scriptorium,  was  doing  two 
things  at  once  with  the  same  brain.  He  did  not  know 
whether  any  of  the  other  monks  ever  indulged  in  this 
or  not.  None  of  them  showed  any  signs  of  it. 
The  Abbot  was  clearly  intent,  soul,  brain  and  body,  on  the 
ruling  of  the  community.  In  such  a  house  as  this  dozens 
of  widely  varied  industries  must  be  carried  on,  much  time 
spent  in  prayer,  song  and  meditation,  and  strict  attention 
given  to  keeping  in  every  detail  the  traditional  Benedictine 
nile.  In  many  medieval  Abbeys  not  all  these  things  were 
done.  Rumor  hinted  that  one  Order  was  too  fond  of  ease, 
and  another  of  increasing  its  estates.  In  the  Irish  Abbey 
where  Brother  Basil  had  received  his  first  education,  little 
thought  was  given  to  anything  but  religion;  the  fare  was  of 
the  rudest  and  simplest  kind.  But  in  this  English  Abbey 
everything  in  the  way  of  clothing,  tools,  furniture,  meat  and 
drink  which  could  be  produced  on  the  lands  was  produced 
there.  Guests  of  high  rank  were  often  entertained.  The 
church,  not  yet  complete,  was  planned  on  a  magnificent  scale. 
The  work  of  the  making  of  books  had  grown  into  something 

IS 


i6  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

like  a  large  })ublishing  business.  As  the  parchments  for  the 
writinj::,  the  leather  tor  the  covers,  the  goose-quill  pens,  the 
metal  clasps,  the  ink,  and  the  colors  for  illuminated  lettering, 
were  all  made  on  the  premises,  a  great  deal  of  skilled  labor 
was  involved.  Besides  the  revenues  from  the  sale  of  manu- 
script volumes  the  Abbey  sold  increasing  quantities  of  wool 
each  year.  Under  some  Abbots  this  material  wealth  might 
have  led  to  luxury.  But  Benedict  of  Winchester  held  that  a 
man  who  took  the  vows  of  religion  should  keep  them. 

With  this  Brother  Basil  entirely  agreed.  He  desired  above 
all  to  give  his  life  to  the  service  of  God  and  the  glory  of 
his  Order.  He  was  a  skillful,  accurate  and  rapid  penman. 
Manuscripts  copied  by  him,  or  under  his  direction,  had  no 
mistakes  or  slovenly  carelessness  about  them.  The  pens  which 
he  cut  were  works  of  art.  The  ink  was  from  a  rule  for 
which  he  had  made  many  experiments.  Every  book  was 
carefully  and  strongly  bound.  Brother  Basil,  in  short,  was 
an  artist,  and  though  the  work  might  be  mechanical,  he 
could  not  endure  not  to  have  it  beautifully  done. 

The  Abbot  was  quite  aware  of  this,  and  made  use  of  the 
young  monk's  talent  for  perfection  by  putting  him  in  charge 
of  the  scriptorium.  In  the  twelfth  century  the  monks  were 
almost  the  only  persons  who  had  leisure  for  bookmaking. 
They  wrote  and  translated  many  histories;  they  copied  the 
books  which  made  up  their  own  libraries,  borrowed  books 
wherever  they  could  and  copied  those,  over  and  over  again. 
They  sold  their  work  to  kings,  noblemen,  and  scholars,  and 
to  other  religious  houses.  The  need  for  books  was  so  great 
that  in  the  scriptorium  of  which  Brother  Basil  had  charge, 
very  little  time  was  spent  on  illumination.     Missals,  chron- 


BASIL  THE  SCUIBK  17 

icles  and  books  of  hymns  fancifully  tlrcoratcd  in  color  were 
done  only  when  there  was  a  demand  for  them.  They  were 
costly  in  time,  labor  and  material. 

Brother  Basil  could  copy  a  manuscript  with  his  right  hand 
and  one  half  his  brain,  while  the  other  half  dreamed  of 
things  far  afield.  He  could  not  remain  blind  to  the  grace 
of  a  bird's  wing  on  its  flight  northward  in  spring,  to  the  deli- 
cate seeking  tendrils  of  grapevines,  the  starry  beauty  of  daisies 
or  the  tracery  of  arched  leafless  boughs.  Within  his  mind 
he  could  follow  the  gracious  curves  of  the  noble  Norman 
choir,  and  he  had  visions  of  color  more  lustrous  than  a  sunrise. 

Day  by  day,  year  by  year,  the  sheep  nibbled  the  tender 
springing  grass.  Yet  the  green  sward  continued  to  be  decked 
with  orfrey-work  of  many  hues — buttercups,  violets,  rose- 
campion,  speedwell,  daisies — defiant  little  bright  heads  not 
three  inches  from  the  roots.  His  fancies  would  come  up  in 
spite  of  everything,  like  the  flowers. 

But  would  it  always  be  so?  Was  he  to  spend  his  life  in 
copying  these  bulky  volumes  of  theology  and  history — the 
same  old  phrases,  the  same  authors,  the  same  seat  by  the  same 
window?  And  some  day,  would  he  find  that  his  dreams 
had  vanished  forever?  Might  he  not  grow  to  be  like  Brother 
Peter,  who  had  kept  the  porter's  lodge  for  forty  years  and 
hated  to  see  a  new  face?  This  was  the  doubt  in  the  back 
of  his  mind,  and  it  was  ver\'  sobering  indeed. 

Years  ago,  when  he  was  a  boy,  he  had  read  the  old  stories 
of  the  missionary  monks  of  Scotland  and  Ireland.  These 
men  carried  the  message  of  the  Cross  to  savage  tribes,  they 
stood  before  Kings,  they  wrought  wonders.  Was  there  no 
more  need  for  such  work  as  theirs?    Even  now  there  was  fierce 


l8  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

misrule  in  Ireland.  Even  now  the  dispute  between  church 
and  state  had  resulted  in  the  murder  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  The  Abbeys  of  all 
England  had  hummed  like  bee-hives  when  that  news  came. 

Brother  Basil  discovered  just  then  that  the  ink  was  failing, 
and  wrnt  to  see  how  the  new  supply  was  coming  on.  It  was 
a  tedious  task  to  make  ink,  but  when  made  it  lasted.  Wood 
of  thorn-trees  must  be  cut  in  April  or  May  before  the  leaves 
or  flowers  were  out,  and  the  bundles  of  twigs  dried  for  two, 
three  or  four  weeks.  Then  they  were  beaten  with  wooden 
mallets  upon  hard  wooden  tablets  to  remove  the  bark,  which 
was  put  in  a  barrel  of  water  and  left  to  stand  for  eight  days. 
The  water  was  then  put  in  a  cauldron  and  boiled  with  some 
of  the  bark,  to  boil  out  what  sap  remained.  When  it  was 
boiled  down  to  about  a  third  of  the  original  measure  it  was 
put  into  another  kettle  and  cooked  until  black  and  thick, 
and  reduced  again  to  a  third  of  its  bulk.  Then  a  little  pure 
wine  was  added  and  it  was  further  cooked  until  a  sort  of 
scum  showed  itself,  when  the  pot  was  removed  from  the  fire 
and  placed  in  the  sun  until  the  black  ink  purified  itself  of 
the  dregs.  The  pure  ink  was  then  poured  into  bags  of  parch- 
.ment  carefully  sewn  and  hung  in  the  sunlight  until  dry,  when 
it  could  be  kept  for  any  length  of  time  till  wanted.  To 
write,  one  moistened  the  ink  with  a  little  wine  and  vitriol. 

As  all  the  colors  for  illumination  must  be  made  by  similar 
tedious  processes,  it  can  be  seen  that  unless  there  was  a  demand 
for  such  work  it  would  not  be  thrifty  to  do  it. 

Brother  Basil  arrived  just  in  time  to  caution  the  lay  brother, 
Simon  Gastard,  against  undue  haste.  Gastard  was  a  clever 
fellow,  but  he  needed  watching.     He  was  too  apt  to  think 


BASIL  THE  SCRIBE  19 

that  a  little  slackness  here  and  there  was  good  for  profits. 
Brother  Basil  stood  over  him  until  the  ink  was  quite  up  to 
the  standard  of  the  Abbey.  But  his  mind  meanwhile  ran  on 
the  petty  squabblings  and  dry  records  of  the  chronicle  that  he 
had  just  been  copying.  How,  after  all,  was  he  better  than 
Gastard?  He  was  giving  the  market  what  it  wanted — and 
the  book  was  not  worth  reading.  If  men  were  to  write 
chronicles,  why  not  make  them  vivid  as  legends,  true,  stirring, 
magnificent  stories  of  the  men  who  moved  the  world*?  Who 
would  care,  in  a  thousand  years,  what  rent  was  paid  by  the 
tenant  farmers  of  the  Abbey,  or  who  received  a  certain  bene- 
fice from  the  King"? 

As  he  turned  from  the  sunlit  court  where  the  ink  was  a- 
making,  he  received  a  summons  to  the  Abbot's  own  parlor. 
He  found  that  dignitary  occupied  with  a  stout  and  consequen- 
tial monk  of  perhaps  forty-five,  who  was  looking  bewildered, 
snubbed,  and  indignant.  Brother  Ambrosius  was  most  unac- 
customed to  admonitions,  even  of  the  mildest.  He  had  a  wide 
reputation  as  a  writer,  and  was  indeed  the  author  of  the  very 
volume  which  Brother  Basil  was  now  copying.  He  seemed 
to  know  by  instinct  what  would  please  the  buyers  of  chron- 
icles, and  especially  what  was  to  be  left  out. 

It  was  also  most  unusual  to  see  the  Abbot  thoroughly 
aroused.  He  had  a  cool,  indifferent  manner,  which  made  his 
rebukes  more  cutting.     Now  he  was  in  wrathful  earnest. 

"Ambrosius,"  he  thundered,  "there  are  some  of  us  who  will 
live  to  see  Thomas  of  Canterbury  a  Saint  of  the  Church. 
But  that  is  no  reason  why  we  should  gabble  about  it  before- 
hand. You  have  been  thinking  yourself  a  writer,  have  you? 
Your  place  here  has  been  allowed  you  because  you  are — as 


SOME  OF  US  WILL  LIVE  TO  SEE  THOMAS  OF   CANTERBURY  A 
SAINT    OF    THE    CHURCH'  " 


BASIL  THE  SCRIBE  21 

a  rule — cautious  even  to  timidity.  Silence  is  always  safe, 
and  an  indiscreet  pen  is  ruinous.  The  children  of  the  brain 
travel  far,  and  they  must  not  discuss  their  betters." 

"Shall  we  write  then  of  the  doings  of  hinds  and  swinkers?" 
asked  the  historian,  pursing  his  heavy  mouth.  "It  seems  we 
cannot  write  of  Kings  and  of  Saints." 

"You  may  write  anything  in  reason  of  Kings  and  of  Saints 
— when  they  are  dead,"  the  Abbot  retorted.  "But  if  you  can- 
not avoid  treasonable  criticism  of  your  King,  I  will  find  an- 
other historian.     Go  now  to  your  penance." 

And  Brother  Ambrosius,  not  venturing  a  reply,  slunk  out. 

In  the  last  three  minutes  Brother  Basil  had  seen  far  beneath 
the  surface  of  things.  His  deep-set  blue  eyes  flamed.  The 
dullness  of  the  chronicle  was  not  always  the  dullness  of 
the  author,  it  seemed.  The  King  showed  at  best  none  too 
much  respect  for  the  Church,  and  his  courtiers  had  dared  the 
murder  of  Becket.    Surely  the  Abbot  was  right. 

"Basil,"  his  superior  observed  grimly,  "in  a  world  full  of 
fools  it  would  be  strange  if  some  were  not  found  here.  It 
is  the  business  of  the  Church  to  make  all  men  alike  useful  to 
God.  Because  the  murder  of  an  Archbishop  has  set  all  Chris- 
tendom a-buzz,  we  must  be  the  more  zealous  to  give  no  just 
cause  of  offence.  I  do  not  believe  that  Henry  is  guilty  of 
that  murder,  but  if  he  were,  he  would  not  shrink  from  other 
crimes.  In  the  one  case  we  have  no  reason  to  condemn  him; 
in  the  other,  we  must  be  silent  or  court  our  own  destruction. 
There  are  other  ways  of  keeping  alive  the  memory  oi  Thomas 
of  Canterbury  besides  foolish  accusations  in  black  and  white. 
There  may  be  pictures,   which   the  people  will  see,  ballads 


22  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

which  they  will  hear  and  repeat — the  very  towers  of  the 
Cathedral  will  be  his  monument. 

"I  have  sent  for  you  now  because  there  is  work  for  you 
to  do  elsewhere.  The  road  from  Paris  to  Byzantium  may  soon 
be  blocked.  The  Emperor  of  Germany  is  at  open  war  with 
the  Pope.  Turks  are  attacking  pilgrims  in  the  Holy  Land. 
Soon  it  may  be  impossible,  even  for  a  monk,  to  make  the  jour- 
ney safely.     The  time  to  go  is  now. 

"You  will  set  forth  within  a  fortnight,  and  go  to  Rouen, 
Paris  and  Limoges;  thence  to  Rome,  Byzantium  and  Alexan- 
dria. I  will  give  you  memoranda  of  certain  manuscripts 
which  you  are  to  secure  if  possible,  either  by  purchase  or 
by  securing  permission  to  make  copies.  Get  as  many  more 
as  you  can.  The  King  is  coming  here  to-night  in  company 
with  the  Archbishop  of  York,  the  Chancellor,  a  Prince  of  Ire- 
land, and  others.  He  may  buy  or  order  some  works  on  the 
ancient  law.  He  desires  also  to  found  an  Abbey  in  Ireland, 
to  be  a  cell  of  this  house.  I  have  selected  Cuthbert  of  Oxen- 
ford  to  take  charge  of  the  work,  and  he  will  set  out  imme- 
diately with  twelve  brethren  to  make  the  foundation.  When 
you  return  from  your  journey  it  will  doubtless  be  well  under 
way.  You  will  begin  there  the  training  of  scribes,  artists, 
metal  workers  and  other  craftsmen.  It  is  true  that  you  know 
little  of  any  work  except  that  of  the  scriptorium,  but  one  can 
learn  to  know  men  there  as  well  as  anywhere.  You  will 
observe  what  is  done  in  France,  Lombardy  and  Byzantium. 
The  men  to  whom  you  will  have  letters  will  make  you  ac- 
quainted with  young  craftsmen  who  may  be  induced  to  go  to 
Ireland  to  work,  and  teach  their  work  to  others.  Little  can 
be  done  toward  establishing  a  school  until  Ireland  is  more 


BASIL  ihp:  scribe  23 

quiet,  but  in  this  the  King  believes  that  we  shall  be  of  some 
assistance.  I  desire  you  to  be  present  at  our  conference,  to 
make  notes  as  you  are  directed,  and  to  say  nothing,  for  th(; 
present,  of  these  matters.  Ambrosius  may  think  that  you  are 
to  have  his  place,  and  that  will  be  ver}'  well." 

The  Abbot  concluded  with  a  rather  ominous  little  smile. 
Brother  Basil  went  back  to  the  scriptorium,  his  head  in  a 
whirl.  Within  a  twelvemonth  he  would  see  the  mosaics  of 
Saint  Mark's  in  Venice,  the  glorious  windows  of  the  French 
cathedrals,  the  dome  of  Saint  Sophia,  the  wonders  of  the 
Holy  Land.  He  was  no  longer  part  of  a  machine.  Indeed, 
he  must  always  have  been  more  than  that,  or  the  Abbot 
would  not  have  chosen  him  for  this  work.  He  felt  very 
humble  and  very  happy. 

He  knew  that  he  must  study  architecture  above  anything 
else,  for  the  building  done  b)^  the  monks  was  for  centuries 
to  come.  Each  brother  of  the  Order  gathered  wisdom  for 
all.  When  a  monk  of  distinguished  ability  learned  how  to 
strengthen  an  arch  here  or  carve  a  doorway  there,  his  work 
was  seen  and  studied  by  others  from  a  hundred  towns  and 
cities.  Living  day  by  day  with  their  work,  the  builders  de- 
tected weaknesses  and  proved  step  by  step  all  that  they  did. 
Cuthbert  of  Oxenford  was  a  sure  and  careful  mason,  but 
that  was  all.  The  beauty  of  the  building  would  have  to  be 
created  by  another  man.  Glass-work,  goldsmith  work,  mo- 
saics, vestments  and  books  might  be  brought  from  abroad, 
but  the  stone-work  must  be  done  with  materials  near  at  hand 
and  such  labor  as  could  be  had.  Brother  Basil  received  letters 
not  only  to  Abbots  and  Bishops,  but  to  Gerard  the  wood- 
carver  of  Amiens,  Matteo  the  Florentine  artist,  Tomaso  the 


24  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

physician  of  Padua,  Angclo  the  ghiss-maker.  He  set  all  in 
order  in  the  scriptorium  where  he  had  toiled  for  five  long 
years.  Then,  having  been  diligent  in  business,  he  went  to 
stand  before  the  King. 

Many  churchmen  pictured  this  Plantagenet  with  horns  and 
a  cloven  foot,  antl  muttered  references  to  the  old  fairy  tale 
about  a  certain  ancestor  of  the  family  who  married  a  witch. 
But  Brother  Basil  was  familiar  with  the  records  of  history. 
He  knew  the  fierce  Norman  blood  of  the  race,  and  knew  also 
the  long  struggle  between  Matilda,  this  King's  mother,  and 
Stephen.  Here,  in  the  plainly  furnished  room  of  the  Abbot, 
was  a  hawk-nosed  man  with  gray  eyes  and  a  stout  restless 
figure,  broad  coarse  hands,  and  slightly  bowed  legs,  as  if  he 
spent  most  of  his  days  in  the  saddle.  The  others,  churchmen 
and  courtiers,  looked  far  more  like  royalty.  Yet  Henry's 
realm  took  in  all  England,  a  part  of  Ireland,  and  a  half  of  what 
is  now  France.  He  was  the  only  real  rival  to  the  German 
Emperor  who  had  defied  and  driven  into  exile  the  Pope  of 
Rome.  If  Henry  were  of  like  mind  with  Frederick  Barbarossa 
it  would  be  a  sorry  day  indeed  for  the  Church.  If  he  were 
disposed  to  contend  with  Barbarossa  for  the  supreme  power 
over  Europe,  the  land  would  be  worn  out  with  wars.  What 
would  he  do?  Brother  Basil  watched  the  debating  group 
and  tried  to  make  up  his  mind. 

He  wrote  now  and  then  a  paragraph  at  the  Abbot's  com- 
mand. It  seemed  that  the  King  claimed  certain  taxes  and 
service  from  the  churchmen  who  held  estates  under  him, 
precisely  as  from  the  feudal  nobles.  The  Abbots  and  Bishops, 
while  claiming  the  protection  of  English  law  for  their  prop- 
erty, claimed  also  that  they  owed  no  obedience  to  the  King, 


BASIL  THE  SCRIBE  29 

but  only  to  their  spiritual  master.  Argument  after  argument 
was  advanced  by  their  trained  minds. 

But  it  was  not  for  amusement  that  Henry  II.,  after  a  day 
with  some  hunting  Abbot,  falcon  on  fist,  read  busily  in  books 
of  law.  Brother  Basil  began  to  see  that  the  King  was  defin- 
ing, little  by  little,  a  code  of  England  based  on  the  old 
Roman  law  and  customs  handed  down  from  the  primitive 
British  village.     Would  he  at  last  obey  the  Church,  or  not? 

Suddenly  the  monarch  halted  in  his  pacing  of  the  room, 
turned  and  faced  the  group.  The  lightning  of  his  e}e  flashed 
from  one  to  another,  and  all  drew  back  a  little  except  the 
Abbot,  who  listened  with  the  little  grim  smile  that  the  monks 
knew. 

"I  tell  ye,"  said  Henry,  bringing  his  hard  fist  down  upon 
the  oaken  table,  "Pope  or  no  Pope,  Emperor  or  no  Emperor, 
I  will  be  King  of  England,  and  this  land  shall  be  fief  to  no 
King  upon  earth.  I  will  have  neither  two  masters  to  my 
dogs,  nor  two  laws  to  my  realm.  Hear  ye  that,  my  lords 
and  councilors'?" 


VENETIAN  GLASS 

Sea-born  they  learned  the  secrets   of  the  sea, 
Prisoned  her  with  strong  love  that  left  her  free, 
Cherished    her    beauty    in    those    fragile    chains 
Whereof  this  precious  heritage  remains. 

Venetian  glass!     The  hues  of  sunset  light, 

The    gold    of    starlight    in    a    winter    night, 

Heaven  joined  with  earth,  and  faeryland  was  wrought 

In  these  the  crystal  Palaces  of  Thought. 


Ill 

THE  PICTURE  IN  THE  WINDOW 

now  ALAN  OF  THE  ABBEY  FARMS  LEARNED  TO  MAKE  STAINED 

GLASS 

ALAN  sat  kicking  his  heels  on  the  old  Roman  wall 
which  was  the  most  solid  part  of  the  half-built  cathe- 
dral. He  had  been  born  and  brought  up  on  a  farm 
not  far  away,  and  had  never  seen  a  town  or  a  shop, 
although  he  was  nearly  thirteen  years  old.  Around  the  great 
house  in  which  the  monks  of  the  abbey  lived  there  were  a 
few  houses  of  a  low  and  humble  sort,  and  the  farm-houses 
thereabouts  were  comfortable;  but  there  was  no  town  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  monks  had  come  there  in  the  beginning 
because  it  was  a  lonely  place  which  no  one  wanted,  and 
because  they  could  have  for  the  asking  a  great  deal  of  land 
which  did  not  seem  to  be  good  for  anything.  After  they 
had  settled  there  they  proceeded  to  drain  the  marshes,  fell 
the  woods  in  prudent  moderation,  plant  orchards  and  raise 
cattle  and  sheep  and  poultry. 

Alan's  father  was  one  of  the  fanners  who  held  land  under 
the  Abbey,  as  his  father  and  grandfather  had  done  before 
him.  He  paid  his  rent  out  of  the  wool  from  his  flocks,  for 
very  soon  the  sheep  had   increased  far  beyond  the  ability 

29 


, 


30  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

of  the  monks  to  look  after  them.  Sometimes,  when  a  new 
wall  was  to  be  built  or  an  old  one  repaired,  he  lent  a  hand 
with  the  work,  for  he  was  a  shrewd  and  honest  builder  of 
common  masonr)  and  a  good  carpenter  as  well.  The  cathe- 
dral had  been  roofed  in  so  that  services  could  be  held  there, 
hut  there  was  only  one  small  chapel,  and  the  towers  were 
not  even  begim.  All  that  would  have  to  be  done  when  money 
came  to  hand,  and  what  with  the  King's  wars  in  Normandy, 
and  against  the  Scots,  his  expedition  to  Ireland,  and  his  diffi- 
culties with  his  own  barons,  the  building  trade  in  that  part 
of  England  was  a  poor  one. 

Alan  wondered,  as  he  tilted  his  chin  back  to  look  up  at 
the  strong  and  graceful  arches  of  the  windows  near  by,  whether 
he  should  ever  see  any  more  of  it  built.  In  the  choir  there 
were  bits  of  stone  carving  which  he  always  liked  to  look  at, 
Init  there  were  only  a  few  statues,  and  no  glass  windows. 
Brother  Basil,  who  had  traveled  in  France  and  Italy  and 
had  taught  Alan  something  of  drawing,  said  that  in  the 
cities  where  he  had  been,  there  were  marvelous  cathedrals 
with  splendid  carved  towers  and  windows  like  jeweled  flow- 
ers or  imprisoned  flame,  but  no  such  glories  were  to  be  found 
in  England  at  that  time. 

The  boy  looked  beyond  the  gray  wall  at  the  gold  and 
ruby  and  violet  of  the  sunset  clouds  behind  the  lace-work 
of  the  bare  elms,  and  wondered  if  the  cathedral  windows  were 
as  beautiful  as  that.  He  had  an  idea  that  they  might  be  like 
the  colored  pictures  in  an  old  book  which  Brother  Basil  had 
brought  from  Rome,  which  he  said  had  been  made  still  fur- 
ther east  in  Byzantium — the  city  which  we  know  as  Constan- 
tinople. 


THE  PICTURE  IN  THE  WINDOW  31 

In  the  arched  doorway  which  led  from  the  garden  into  the 
orchard  some  one  was  standing — a  small  old  man,  hent  and 
tired-looking,  with  a  pack  on  his  shoulder.  Alan  slid  off 
the  stone  ledge  and  ran  down  the  path.  The  old  man  had 
taken  off  his  cap  and  was  rubbing  his  forehead  wearily.  His 
eyes  were  big  and  dark,  his  hair  and  beard  were  dark  and 
fine,  his  face  was  lined  with  delicate  wrinkles,  and  he  did  not 
look  in  the  least  like  the  people  of  the  village.  His  voice 
was  soft  and  pleasant,  and  though  he  spoke  English,  he  did 
not  pronounce  it  like  the  village  people,  or  like  the  monks. 

"This — is  the  cathedral?"  he  said  in  a  disappointed  way, 
as  if  he  had  expected  something  quite  different. 

"Yes,"  drawled  Alan,  for  he  spoke  as  all  the  farmer-folk 
did,  with  a  kind  of  twang. 

"But  they  are  doing  no  work  here,"  said  the  old  man. 

Alan  shook  his  head.  "It  has  been  like  this  ever  since  I 
can  remember.  Father  says  there's  no  knowing  when  it  will 
be  finished." 

The  old  man  sighed,  and  then  broke  out  in  a  quick  patter 
of  talk,  as  if  he  really  could  not  help  telling  his  story  to 
some  one.  Alan  could  not  understand  all  that  he  said,  but 
he  began  to  see  why  the  stranger  was  so  disappointed.  He 
was  Italian;  he  had  come  to  London  from  France,  and  only 
two  days  after  landing  he  had  had  a  fall  and  broken  his 
leg,  so  that  he  had  been  lame  ever  since.  Then  he  had  been 
robbed  of  his  money.  Some  one  had  told  him  that  there  was 
an  unfinished  cathedral  here,  and  he  had  come  all  the  way 
on  foot  in  the  hope  of  finding  work.  Now,  it  seemed,  there 
was  no  work  to  be  had. 

What  interested  Alan  was  that  this  old  man  had  really 


32  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

helped  to  build  the  wonderful  French  cathedrals  of  which 
Brother  Basil  had  told,  and  he  was  sure  that  if  Brother  Basil 
were  here,  something  might  be  done.  But  he  was  away,  on  a 
pilgrimage;  the  abbot  was  away  too;  and  Brother  Peter,  the 
porter,  did  not  like  strangers.  Alan  decided  that  the  best 
thing  to  do  would  be  to  take  the  old  man  home  and  explain 
to  his  mother. 

Dame  Cicely  at  the  Abbey  Farm  was  usually  inclined  to 
give  Alan  what  he  asked,  because  he  seldom  asked  anything. 
He  was  rather  fond  of  spending  his  time  roaming  about  the 
moors,  or  trying  to  draw  pictures  of  things  that  he  had  seen 
or  heard  of;  and  she  was  not  sure  whether  he  would  ever 
make  a  fanner  or  not.  She  was  touched  by  the  old  man's 
troubles,  and  liked  his  polite  ways;  and  Alan  very  soon  had 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  new  friend  warm  and  comfort- 
able in  the  chimney-corner.  The  rambling  old  farm-house 
had  all  sorts  of  rooms  in  it,  and  there  was  a  little  room  in 
the  older  part,  which  had  a  window  looking  toward  the  sunset, 
a  straw  bed,  a  bench,  and  a  fireplace,  for  it  had  once  been 
used  as  a  kitchen.  It  was  never  used  now  except  at  harvest- 
time,  and  the  stranger  could  have  that. 

Nobody  in  the  household,  except  Alan,  could  make  much 
of  the  old  man's  talk.  The  maids  laughed  at  his  way  of 
speaking  English;  the  men  soon  found  that  he  knew  nothing 
of  cattle-raising,  or  plowing,  or  carpentering,  or  thatching, 
or  sheep-shearing.  But  Alan  hung  about  the  little  room  in 
all  his  spare  time,  brought  fagots  for  the  fire,  answered  ques- 
tions, begged,  borrowed  or  picked  up  somewhere  whatever 
seemed  to  be  needed,  and  watched  with  fascinated  eyes  all 
the  doings  that  went  on. 


THE  PICTURE  IN  THE  WINDOW  33 

The  old  man's  name,  it  appeared,  was  Angelo  Pisano,  and 
he  had  actually  made  cathedral  windows,  all  by  himself. 
Although  Italian  born,  he  had  spent  much  of  his  life  in 
France,  and  had  known  men  of  many  nations,  including  the 
English.  He  meant  now  to  make  a  window  to  show  the  Abbot 
when  he  returned,  and  then,  perhaps,  the  Abbot  would  either 
let  him  stay  and  work  for  the  Church,  or  help  him  to  find 
work  somewhere  else. 

The  first  thing  that  he  did  was  to  mix,  in  a  black  iron 
pot  that  Alan  found  among  rubbish,  some  sand  and  other 
mysterious  ingredients,  and  then  the  fire  must  be  kept  up 
evenly,  without  a  minute's  inattention,  until  exactly  the  proper 
time,  when  the  molten  mass  was  lifted  out  in  a  lump  on  the 
end  of  a  long  iron  pipe.  Alan  held  his  breath  as  the  old  man 
blew  it  into  a  great  fragile  crimson  bubble,  and  then,  so 
deftly  and  quickly  that  the  boy  did  not  see  just  how,  cut  the 
bottle-shaped  hollow  glass  down  one  side  and  flattened  it 
out,  a  transparent  sheet  of  rose-red  that  was  smooth  and  even 
for  the  most  part,  and  thick  and  uneven  around  a  part  of 
the  edge. 

Everything  had  to  be  done  a  little  at  a  time.  Angelo 
was  working  with  such  materials  as  he  could  get,  and  the  glass 
did  not  always  turn  out  as  he  meant  it  should.  Twice  it 
was  an  utter  failure  and  had  to  be  re-melted  and  worked  all 
over  again.  Once  it  was  even  finer  in  color  than  it  would 
have  been  if  made  exactly  by  the  rule.  Angelo  said  that 
some  impurity  in  the  metal  which  gave  the  color  had  made  a 
more  beautiful  blue  than  he  expected.  Dame  Cicely  happened 
to  be  there  when  they  were  talking  it  over,  and  nodded  wisely. 

"  'Tis  often  that  way,"  said  she.     "I  remember  once  in  the 


34  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

baking,  the  oven  was  too  coltl  and  I  made  sure  the  pasties 
would  be  shick-baked,  and  the\  was  better  than  ever  we  had." 

Alan  was  not  sure  what  the  glassniaker  would  think  of  this 
taking  it  for  granted  that  cookery  was  as  much  a  craft  as  the 
making  of  windows,  but  the  old  man  nodded  and  smiled, 

"I  think  that  there  is  a  gramarye  in  the  nature  of  things," 
he  said,  "and  God  to  keep  us  from  being  too  wise  in  our 
own  conceit  lets  it  now  and  then  bring  all  our  wisdom  to 
folly.  Now,  my  son,  we  will  store  these  away  where  no  harm 
can  come  to  them,  for  I  have  never  known  God  to  work 
miracles  for  the  careless,  and  we  have  no  more  than  time  to 
finish  the  window." 

They  had  sheets  of  red,  blue,  green,  yellow  and  clear  white 
glass,  not  very  large,  but  beautifully  clear  and  shining,  and 
these  were  set  carefully  in  a  corner  with  a  block  of  wood  in 
front  of  them  for  protection. 

Then  Angelo  fell  silent  and  pulled  at  his  beard.  The 
little  money  that  he  had  was  almost  gone. 

"Alan,  my  son,"  he  said  presently,  "do  you  know  what 
lead  is?" 

Alan  nodded.  "The  roof  of  the  chapel  was  covered  with 
it,"  he  said,  "the  chapel  that  burned  down.  The  lead  melted 
and  rained  down  on  the  floor,  and  burned  Brother  Basil  when 
he  ran  in  to  save  the  book  with  the  colored  pictures." 

The  glass-worker  smiled.  "Your  Brother  Basil,"  he  said, 
"must  have  the  soul  of  an  artist.  I  wonder  now  what  became 
of  that  lead?" 

"They  saved  a  little,  but  most  of  it  is  mixed  up  with  the 
rubbish  and  the  ashes,"  Alan  said  confidently.  "Do  you 
want  it?" 


THE  PICTURE  IN  THE  WINDOW  35 

Angelo  spread  his  hands  with  a  funny  little  gesture.  "Want 
it  I"  he  said.     "Where  did  they  put  those  ashes'?" 

Lead  was  a  costly  thing  in  the  Middle  Ages.  It  was 
sometimes  used  for  roofing  purposes,  as  well  as  for  gutter-pipes 
and  drain-pipes,  because  it  will  not  rust  as  iron  will,  and  can 
easily  be  worked.  Alan  had  played  about  that  rubbish  heap, 
and  he  knew  that  there  were  lumps  of  lead  among  the  wood- 
ashes  and  crumbled  stones.  Much  marveling,  he  led  the 
artist  to  the  pile  of  rubbish  that  had  been  thrown  over  the 
wall,  and  helped  to  dig  out  the  precious  bits  of  metal.  Then 
the  fire  was  lighted  once  more,  and  triumphantly  Angelo 
melted  the  lead  and  purified  it,  and  rolled  it  into  sheets,  and 
cut  it  into  strips. 

"Now,"  he  said  one  morning,  "we  are  ready  to  begin.  I 
shall  make  a  medallion  which  can  be  set  in  a  great  window 
like  embroidery  on  a  curtain.  It  shall  be  a  picture — of  what, 
my  son*?" 

His  dark  eyes  were  very  kind  as  he  looked  at  the  boy's  eager 
face.  The  question  had  come  so  suddenly  that  Alan  found 
no  immediate  answer.  Then  he  saw  his  pet  lamb  delicately 
nibbling  at  a  bit  of  green  stuff  which  his  mother  held  out  to  it 
as  she  stood  in  her  blue  gown  and  white  apron,  her  bright  hair 
shining  under  her  cap. 

"I  wish  we  could  make  a  picture  of  her,"  he  said  a  little 
doubtfully.  Angelo  smiled,  and  with  a  bit  of  charcoal  he 
made  a  sketch  on  a  board.  Alan  watched  with  wonder- 
widened  eyes,  although  he  had  seen  the  old  man  draw  before. 
Then  they  went  together  into  the  little  room  which  had  seen 
so  many  surprising  things,  and  the  sketch  was  copied  on  the 
broad  wooden  bench  which  they  had  been  using  for  a  table. 


THE   MEDALLION   WAS  A  PICTURE  IN   COLORED  GLASS 


THE  PICTURE  IN  THE  WINDOW  37 

Then  holding  one  end  of  a  piece  of  string  in  the  middle  of 
the  lamb's  back,  Angelo  slipped  the  charcoal  through  a  loop  in 
the  other  end,  and  drew  a  circle  round  the  whole.  Around 
this  he  drew  a  wreath  of  flowers  and  leaves.  Then  he  laid  the 
white  glass  over  the  lamb  and  drew  the  outline  just  as  a  child 
would  draw  on  a  transparent  slate,  putting  in  the  curls  of  the 
wool,  the  eyes  and  ears  and  hoofs,  with  quick,  sure  touches. 
This  done,  he  set  the  white  glass  aside,  and  drew  Dame  Cicely's 
blue  gown  and  the  blue  of  a  glimpse  of  sky  on  the  blue  glass. 
The  green  of  the  grass  and  the  bushes  was  drawn  on  the  green 
glass,  and  the  roses  on  the  red,  and  on  the  yellow,  the  cowslips 
in  the  grass.  When  all  these  had  been  cut  out  with  a  sharp 
tool,  they  fitted  together  exactly  like  the  bits  of  a  picture- 
puzzle,  but  with  a  little  space  between,  for  each  bit  of  the  pic- 
ture had  been  drawn  a  trifle  inside  the  line  to  leave  room  for 
the  framework. 

Now  it  began  to  be  obvious  what  the  lead  was  for.  With 
the  same  deftness  he  had  shown  throughout  the  old  glass- 
worker  bent  the  strips  of  lead,  which  had  been  heated  just 
enough  to  make  them  flexible,  in  and  out  and  around  the  edges 
of  the  pieces  of  colored  glass,  which  were  held  in  place  as  the 
leaden  strips  were  bent  down  over  the  edges,  as  a  picture  is 
held  in  the  frame.  When  the  work  was  finished,  the  medallion 
was  a  picture  in  colored  glass,  of  a  woman  of  gracious  and 
kindly  bearing,  a  pale  gold  halo  about  her  face,  her  hand  on 
the  head  of  a  white  lamb,  and  a  wreath  of  blossoms  around 
the  whole.  When  the  sun  shone  through  it,  the  leaden  lines 
might  have  been  a  black  network  holding  a  mass  of  gems. 
Dame  Cicely  looked  at  it  with  awed  wonder,  and  the  lamb 
bleated  cheerfully,  as  if  he  knew  his  own  likeness. 


38  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Then  there  was  an  exclamation  from  the  gateway,  and  they 
turned  to  see  a  thin-faced  man  in  the  robe  and  sandals  of 
a  monk,  with  sea-blue  eyes  alight  in  joy  and  surprise. 

"Is  it  you,  indeed,  Angelo!"  he  cried.  "They  told  me 
that  a  glass-worker  was  doing  mar^-^elous  things  here,  and  I 
heard  a  twelvemonth  since  that  you  were  leaving  Normandy 
for  England.     Where  have  you  been  all  this  time*?" 

The  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  after  much  talk  of  old  times 
and  new  times,  Angelo  was  asked  to  make  a  series  of  stained 
glass  windows  for  the  Abbey,  with  all  the  aid  that  the  friend- 
ship of  the  Abbot  and  Brother  Basil  could  supply.  He  kept 
his  little  room  at  the  farm,  where  he  could  see  the  sunset 
through  the  trees,  and  have  the  comfortable  care  of  Dame 
Cicely  when  he  found  the  cold  of  the  North  oppressive;  but 
he  had  a  glass-house  of  his  own,  fitted  up  close  by  the  Abbey, 
and  there  Alan  worked  with  him.  The  Abbot  had  met  in 
Rouen  a  north-country  nobleman,  of  the  great  \''avasour  fam- 
ily, who  had  married  a  Flemish  wife  and  was  coming  shortly 
to  live  on  his  estates  within  a  few  miles  of  the  Abbey.  He 
desired  to  have  a  chapel  built  in  honor  of  the  patron  saint  of 
his  family,  and  had  given  money  for  that,  and  also  for  the 
windows  in  the  Abbey.  The  Abbot  had  been  thinking  that  he 
should  have  to  send  for  these  windows  to  some  glass-house 
on  the  Continent,  and  when  he  found  that  the  work  could  be 
done  close  at  hand  by  a  master  of  the  craft,  he  was  more  than 
pleased.  With  cathedrals  and  churches  a-building  all  over  Eng- 
land, and  the  Abbot  to  make  his  work  known  to  other  build- 
ers of  his  Order,  there  was  no  danger  that  Angelo  would  be 
without  work  in  the  future.  Some  day,  he  said,  Alan  should 
go  as  a  journeyman  and  see  for  himself  all  the  cathedral  win- 


IHE  PICTURE  IN  THE  WINDOW  39 

dows  in  Italy  and  France,  but  for  the  [)resent  he  must  stick 
to  the  ghiss-house.  And  this  Alan  was  content  to  do,  for  he 
was  learning,  day  by  day,  all  that  could  be  learned  from  a 
man  superior  to  most  artists  of  either  France  or  Italy. 


TROUBADOUR'S  SONG 

When  we  went  hunting  in  Fairyland, 

(O  the  chiming  bells  on  her  bridle-rein!) 
And  the  hounds  broke  leash  at  the  queen's  command, 

(O  the  toss  of  her  palfrey's  mane  I) 
Like  shadows  we  fled  through  the  weaving  shade 
With   quivering   moonbeams   thick   inlaid. 
And  the  shrilling  bugles  around  us  played — 
I  dreamed  that  I  fought  the  Dane. 

Clatter  of  faun-feet  sudden  and  swift, 

(O   the   view-halloo   in   the   dusky  wood!) 
And  satyrs  crowding  the  mountain  rift, 

(O  the  flare  of  her  fierce  wild  mood!) 
Boulders  and  hollows  alive,  astir 
With  a  goat-thighed  foe,  all  teeth  and  fur, 
We  husked  that  foe  like  a  chestnut  bur — 
I  thought  of  the  Holy  Rood. 

We  trailed  from  our  shallop  a  magic  net, 

(O  the  spell  of  her  voice  with  its  crooning  note!) 
By  the  edge  of  the  world,  where  the  stars  are  set, 

(O  the  ripples  that  rocked  our  boat!) 
But  into  the  mesh  of  the  star-sown  dream 
A   mermaid   swept  on   the   lashing  stream, 
A  drift  of  spume  and  an  emerald  gleam — 
I  remembered  my  love's  white  throat. 


When   wc   held   revel   in   Fairyland, 

(O  the  whirl  of  the  dancers  under  the  Hill!) 
The  wind-harp   sang  to  the  queen's   light  hand, 

(O  her  eyes,  so  deep  and  still!) 
But   I   was   a  captive   among  them   all, 
And    the  jeweled    flagons  were   brimming  with   gall, 
And    the   arras   of    gold    was   a    dungeon-wall, — 

I  dreamed  that  they  set  mc  freel 


IV 
THE    GRASSHOPPERS'    ETBRARY 

HOW    RANULPH    LE    PROVENCAL    CEASED    TO    BE    A    MINSTREL 
AND    BECAME    A    TROUBADOUR 

ON  a  hillside  above  a  stone-terraced  oval  hollow,  a 
youth  lay  singing  softly  to  himself  and  making  such 
music  as  he  could  upon  a  rote.  The  instrument  was 
of  the  sort  which  King  David  had  in  mind  when  he 
said,  "Awake,  psaltery  and  harp;  I  myself  will  awake  early." 
It  was  a  box-shaped  thing  like  a  zither,  which  at  one  time  had 
probably  owned  ten  strings.  The  player  was  adapting  his 
music  as  best  he  might  to  favor  its  peculiarities.  Notwith- 
standing his  debonair  employment,  he  did  not  look  as  if  he 
were  on  very  good  terms  with  life.  His  cloak  and  hose  were 
shabby  and  weather-stained,  his  doublet  was  still  less  present- 
able, his  cheeks  were  hollow,  and  there  were  dark  circles  under 
his  eyes.  Presently  he  abandoned  the  song  altogether,  and 
lay,  chin  in  hand,  staring  down  into  the  grass-grown,  an- 
cient pit. 

It  had  begun  its  history  as  a  Roman  amphitheater,  a  thou- 
sand years  before.  Gladiators  had  fought  and  wild  beasts 
had  raged  in  that  arena,  whose  encircling  wall  was  high 
enough  to  defy  the  leap  of  the  most  agile  of  lions.  Up  here, 
on  the  hillside,  in  the  archways  outside  the  outermost  ring  of 
seats,  the  slaves  had  watched  the  combats.     The  youth  had 

43 


44  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

heard  soniothinfj;  about  tliese  old  imi>erial  customs,  and  he  had 
pirsscd  that  he  had  come  uj)on  a  haunt  of  the  Roman  colonists 
who  had  fountled  a  for^'otten  town  near  b}-.  He  wondered,  as 
lit-  lay  there,  it"  he  himself  were  in  any  better  case  than  those 
unknown  captives,  who  had  fought  and  died  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  their  owners. 

Ranulph  le  Provenc^al,  as  he  was  one  day  to  be  known,  was 
the  son  of  a  Provencal  father  and  a  Norman  mother.  In  the 
siege  of  a  town  his  father  had  been  killed  and  his  mother  had 
died  of  starvation,  and  he  himself  had  barely  escaped  with 
life.  That  had  been  the  penalty  of  being  on  the  wrong  side  of 
the  struggle  between  the  Normans  of  Anjou  and  their  un- 
willing subjects  in  Aquitaine.  At  the  moment  the  rebellious 
counts  of  Aquitaine  were  getting  the  best  of  it.  Ranulph 
knew  little  of  the  tangled  politics  of  the  time,  but  it  seemed 
to  him  that  all  France  was  turned  into  a  cockpit  in  which  the 
sovereign  counts  of  France,  who  were  jealous  of  their  inde- 
pendence, and  the  fierce  pride  of  the  Angevin  dukes  who  tried 
to  keep  a  foothold  in  both  France  and  England,  and  the  de- 
termined ambition  of  the  King  who  sat  in  Paris,  were  warring 
over  the  enslavement  of  an  unhappy  people.  He  himself  had 
no  chance  of  becoming  a  knight;  his  life  was  broken  off  before 
it  had  fairly  begun.  He  got  his  living  by  wandering  from  one 
place  to  another  making  songs.  He  had  a  voice,  and  could 
coax  music  out  of  almost  any  sort  of  instrument;  and  he  had 
a  trick  of  putting  new  words  to  familiar  tunes  that  made  folk 
laugh  and  listen. 

Neighborhood  quarrels  had  drained  money  and  spirit  out 
of  the  part  of  the  country  where  he  was,  and  he  had  almost 
forgotten  what  it  was  like  to  have  enough  to  eat.     The  little 


THE  GRASSHOPPERS'  LIBRARY  45 

dog  that  had  followed  him  through  his  wanderings  for  a  year 
foraged  for  scraps  and  fared  better  than  his  master;  but  now 
small  Zix^ero  was  hungry  too.  The  little  fellow  had  been 
mauled  by  a  mastiff  that  morning,  and  a  blow  from  a  porter's 
staff  had  broken  his  leg.  Ranulph  had  rescued  his  comrade  at 
some  cost  to  himself,  and  might  not  have  got  off  so  easily  if  a 
sudden  sound  of  trumpets  had  not  cleared  the  way  for  a  king's 
vanguard.  As  the  soldiers  rode  in  at  the  gates  the  young 
minstrel  folded  his  dog  in  his  cloak  and  limped  out  along  the 
highway.  Up  here  in  the  shade  of  some  bushes  by  the  de- 
serted ruins,  he  had  done  what  he  could  for  his  pet,  but  the 
little  whimper  Zipero  gave  now  and  then  seemed  to  go  through 
his  heart. 

Life  had  been  difficult  before,  but  he  had  been  stronger, 
or  more  ignorant.  He  had  made  blithe  songs  when  he  was 
anything  but  gay  at  heart;  he  had  laughed  when  others  were 
weeping  and  howling;  he  had  danced  to  his  own  music  when 
every  inch  of  his  body  ached  with  weariness;  and  it  had  all 
come  to  this.  He  had  been  turned  out  of  his  poor  lodgings 
because  he  had  no  money ;  he  had  been  driven  out  of  the  town 
because  he  would  not  take  money  earned  in  a  certain  wa}-. 
He  seemed  to  have  come  to  the  end. 

If  that  were  the  case  he  might  as  well  make  a  song  about 
it  and  see  what  it  would  be  like.  He  took  up  the  rote,  and 
began  to  work  out  a  refrain  that  was  singing  itself  in  his  head. 
Zipero  listened;  he  was  quieter  when  he  heard  the  familiar 
sound.  The  song  was  flung  like  a  challenge  into  the  silent 
arena. 


46  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

The  Planet  of  Love  in  the  cloud-swept  night 

Hangs  like  a  censer  of  gold, 
And  ^'enus  reigns  on  her  starlit  height 

Even  as  she  ruled  of  old. 
Yet  the  Planet  of  War  is  abroad  on  earth 

In  a  chariot  of  scarlet  flame. 
And  Mercy  and  Loyalty,  Love  and  Mirth 

Must  die  for  his  grisly  fame. 


Ravens  are  croaking  and  gray  wolves  prowl 

On  the  desolate  field  of  death, 
The  smoke  of  the  burning  hangs  like  a  cowl — 

Grim  Terror  throttles  the  breath. 
Yet  a  white  bird  flies  in  the  silent  night 

To  your  window  that  looks  on  the  sea, 
To  bear  to  my  Lady  of  All  Delight 

This  one  last  song  from  me. 

"Princess,   the   planets   that   rule  our  life 

Are  the  same  for  beggar  or  King, — 
We  may  win  or  lose  in  the  hazard  of  strife, 

There  is  ever  a  song  to  sing ! 
We  are  free  as  the  wind,  O  heart  of  gold! 

The   stars   that  rule  our   lot 
Are  netted  fast  in  a  bond  ninefold, — • 

The  twist  of  Solomon's  Knot." 


"So  you  believe  that,  my  son?"  asked  a  voice  behind  him. 
He  sat  up  and  looked  about ;  an  old  man  in  a  long  dusky  cloak 
and  small  flat  cap  had  come  over  the  brovv'  of  the  hill.  lie 
answered,  a  trifle  defiantly, 


THE  GRASSHOPPEHS'  LIBHARY  47 

"Perhaps  I  do.  At  any  rate,  that  is  the  song." 
'Oh,  it  is  true,"  the  old  man  said  quirtly  as  he  knelt  beside 
Zipero  on  the  turf.  He  examined  the  bandages  on  the  little 
dog's  neck  and  forelegs,  undid  them,  laid  some  bruised  leaves 
from  his  basket  on  the  wounds.  The  small  creature,  with  his 
eyes  on  his  master's  face,  licked  the  stranger's  hand  gratefully 
ro  show  that  he  w^s  more  at  ease.  "Man  alone  is  free.  This 
herb  cannot  change  itself;  it  must  heal;  that  one  must  slay. 
Saturn  is  ever  the  Greater  Malignant;  our  Lady  Venus  cannot 
rule  war,  nor  can  Mars  rule  a  Court  of  Love.  The  most 
uncertain  creature  in  the  world  is  a  man.  The  stars  themselves 
cannot  force  me  to  revile  God." 

Ranulph  was  silent.  After  months  and  years  among  rude 
street  crowds,  the  dignity  and  kindliness  of  the  old  man's  ways 
were  like  a  voice  from  another  world. 

"I  can  cure  this  little  animal,"  the  stranger  went  on  pres- 
ently, "if  you  will  let  me  take  him  to  my  lodgings,  where  I 
have  certain  salves  and  medicines.  I  shall  be  pleased  if  you 
will  come  also,  unless  you  are  occupied." 

Ranulph  laughed;  that  was  absurd.  "I  am  a  street  singer," 
he  said.  "My  time  is  not  in  demand  at  present.  I  must  tell 
you,  however,  that  the  Count  is  my  enemy — if  a  friendless 
beggar  can  have  such  a  thing.  One  of  his  varlets  set  his 
ban-dog  on  us  both,  this  morning." 

"He  will  give  me  no  trouble,"  said  the  old  man  quietly. 
"Come,  children." 

Ranulph  got  to  his  feet  and  followed  with  Zipero  in  his 
arms.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  the  other  side  was  a  nonde- 
script building  which  had  grown  up  around  what  was  left  of 


48  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

a  Roman  house.  The  unruined  pillars  and  strongly  cemented 
stone-work  contrasted  oddly  with  the  thatch  and  tile  of  peasant 
workmen.  They  passed  through  a  gate  where  an  old  and 
wrinkled  woman  peered  through  a  window  at  them,  then  they 
went  up  a  flight  of  stairs  outside  the  wall  to  a  tower-room 
in  the  third  story.  A  chorus  of  welcome  arose  from  a  strange 
company  of  creatures,  caged  and  free:  finches,  linnets,  a  parrot, 
a  raven  which  sidled  up  at  once  to  have  its  head  scratched, 
pigeons  strutting  and  cooing  on  the  window-ledge,  and  a  large 
cat  of  a  slaty-blue  color  with  solemn,  topaz  eyes,  which  took 
no  more  note  of  Zipero  than  if  he  had  been  a  dog  of  stone.  A 
basket  was  provided  for  the  small  patient,  near  the  window 
that  looked  out  over  the  hills;  the  old  servingwoman  brought 
food,  simple  but  well-cooked  and  delicious,  and  Ranulph  was 
motioned  to  a  seat  at  the  table.  It  was  all  done  so  easily  and 
quickly  that  dinner  was  over  before  Ranulph  found  words 
for  the  gratitude  which  filled  his  soul. 

"Will  you  not  tell  me,"  he  said  hesitatingly  at  last,  "to 
whom  I  may  offer  my  thanks — and  service — if  I  may  not  serve 
you  in  some  way?" 

"Give  to  some  one  else  in  need,  when  you  can,"  said  his 
host  calmly.  "I  am  Tomaso  of  Padua.  A  physician's  busi- 
ness is  healing,  wherever  he  finds  sickness  in  man  or  beast. 
Your  little  friend  there  needed  certain  things;  your  need  is 
for  other  things;  the  man  who  is  now  coming  up  the  stairs 
needs  something  else."  Taking  a  harp  from  a  corner  he  added, 
"Perhaps  you  will  amuse  yourself  with  this  for  an  hour,  while 
I  see  what  that  knock  at  the  door  means,  this  time." 

Whoever  the  visitor  was,  he  was  shown  into  another  room, 


THE  GRASSHOPPERS'  LIBRARY  49 

and  Ranulph  presently  forgot  all  his  troubles  and  almost  lost 
the  consciousness  ot  his  surroundings,  as  the  harp  sang  under 
his  hand.  He  began  to  put  into  words  a  song  which  had  been 
haunting  him  for  days, — a  ballad  of  a  captive  knight  who 
spent  seven  long  years  in  Fairyland,  but  in  spite  of  all  that 
the  Fairy  Queen's  enchantment  could  do,  never  forgot  his  own 
people.  Many  of  the  popular  romances  of  the  time  were  fairy- 
tales full  of  magic  spells,  giants,  caverns  within  the  hills, 
witches  and  wood-folk  hoofed  and  horned  like  Pan,  sea- 
monsters,  palaces  which  appeared  and  vanished  like  moon- 
shine. When  they  were  sung  to  the  harp-music  of  a  trouba- 
dour who  knew  his  work,  they  seemed  very  real. 

"That  is  a  good  song,"  said  a  stranger  who  had  come  in  so 
quietly  that  Ranulph  did  not  see  him.  "Did  you  find  it  in 
Spain?" 

Ranulph  stood  up  and  bowed  with  the  grace  that  had  not 
left  him  in  all  his  wandering  life.  "No,"  he  said,  his  dark 
eyes  glinting  with  laughter,  "I  learned  it  in  the  Grasshoppers' 
Library.  I  beg  your  pardon,  master, — that  is  a  saying  we 
have  in  Provence.  You  will  guess  the  meaning.  A  learned 
physician  found  me  there,  studying  diligently  though  perhaps 
not  over-profitably  upon  a  hillside." 

"Not  bad  at  all,"  said  the  stranger,  sitting  down  by  Ranulph 
in  the  window  and  running  over  the  melody  on  the  harp.  His 
fingers  swept  the  strings  in  a  confident  power  that  showed  him 
a  master-musician,  and  he  began  a  song  so  full  of  wonder, 
mystery  and  sweetness  that  Ranulph  listened  spellbound. 
Neither  of  them  knew  that  for  centuries  after  they  sat  there 
singing  in  a  ruined  Roman  tower,  the  song  would  be  known 
to  all  the  world  as  the  legend  of  Parzifal. 


50  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

"I  too  have  studied  in  the  Grasshoppers'  Library,"  said  the 
singer,  "but  I  found  in  an  ancient  book  anion;^  the  infidels  in 
Spain  tiiis  tale  of  a  cup  of  enchantment,  and  made  use  of  it. 
I  think  that  it  is  one  of  those  songs  which  do  not  die,  but 
travel  far  and  wide  in  many  disguises,  and  end  perhaps  in  the 
Church.     You  are  one  of  us,  are  you  not?" 

"I  am  a  street  singer,"  Ranulph  answered,  "a  jongleur — 
a  jester.  I  make  songs  for  this," — he  took  up  his  battered  rote 
and  hummed  a  camp-chorus. 

'Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  play  like  that — on  that?" 
asked  the  other.  "Your  studies  must  have  led  you  indeed  to 
Fairyland.  You  ought  to  go  to  England.  The  Flantagenets 
are  friendly  to  us  troubadours,  and  the  English  are  a  merry 
people,  who  delight  in  songs  and  the  hearing  of  tales." 

Ranulph  did  not  answer.  Going  to  England  and  going  to 
Fairyland  were  not  in  the  same  class  of  undertaking.  Fairy- 
land might  be  just  over  the  border  of  the  real  world,  but  it 
cost  money  to  cross  the  seas. 

Tomaso  came  in  just  then,  his  deep-set  eyes  twinkling.  "It 
is  all  right,"  he  said,  nodding  to  the  troubadour. 

"I  have  been  telling  our  friend  here  that  he  should  go  to 
England,"  said  the  latter,  rising  and  putting  on  his  cloak. 
"If,  as  you  say,  his  father  was  loyal  to  the  House  of  Anjou, 
Henry  will  remember  it.  He  is  a  wise  old  fox,  is  Henry,  and 
he  needs  men  whom  he  can  trust.  He  is  changing  laws,  and 
that  is  no  easy  thing  to  do  when  you  have  a  stubborn  people 
with  all  sorts  of  ideas  in  their  heads  about  custom,  and  tradi- 
tion, and  what  not.  He  wants  to  make  things  safe  for  his 
sons,  and  the  throne  on  which  he  sits  is  rocking.  The  French 
king  is  greedy  and  the  Welsh  are  savage,  and  Italian  galleys 


THE  GRASSHOPPERS'  LIBRARY  51 

crowd  the  very  Pool  of  London.  T  remember  me  when  I  was 
a  student  in  Paris,  a  Welsh  clerk — he  calls  himself  now  Giral- 
diis  Cambrensis,  but  his  name  then  was  Gerald  Barri, — had 
the  room  over  mine,  the  year  that  Philip  was  born.  We  woke 
up  one  night  to  find  the  whole  street  ablaze  with  torches  and 
lanterns,  and  two  old  crones  dancing  under  our  windows  with 
lighted  torches  in  their  hands,  howling  for  joy.  Barri  stuck 
his  head  out  of  window  and  asked  what  ailed  them,  and  one  of 
them  screamed  in  her  cracked  voice,  'We  have  got  a  Prince 
now  who  will  drive  you  all  out  of  France  some  day,  you 
Englishmen  I'  I  can  see  his  face  now  as  he  shouted  back 
something  that  assuredly  was  not  French.  I  tell  you,  Phili[) 
will  hate  the  English  like  his  father  before  him,  and  these  arc 
times  when  a  troubadour  who  can  keep  a  merry  face  and  a  close 
tongue  will  learn  much." 

As  the  door  closed  the  physician  sat  down  in  his  round- 
backed  chair,  resting  his  long,  wrinkled  hands  upon  the  anus. 
"W^ell,  my  son,"  he  said  in  his  unperturbed  voice,  "I  find  some- 
body yonder  is  very  sorry  that  you  were  thrown  out  of  the 
gates  this  morning," 

Ranulph  glanced  up  quickly,  but  said  nothing. 

"He  had  no  idea  that  you  were  here,  of  course.  He  came 
to  get  me  to  ask  the  stars  what  had  become  of  a  ou,  as  you 
could  not  be  found  on  the  road.  When  he  found  that  you 
would  not  serve  him  in  the  matter  of  the  dagger  and  the 
poison,  he  never  intended  to  let  you  leave  the  town,  but  as  you 
know,  your  dog,  seeing  you  mishandled,  flew  at  his  varlet, 
and  the  thick-headed  fellow  drove  you  out  before  he  had  any 
further  orders.  By  such  small  means,"  old  Tomaso  stroked 
Zipero's  head,  "are  evil  plans  made  of  no  account." 


52  IN  HIE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Rnnulph  drew  a  long  breath.    He  had  lost  color. 

"But  you,"  he  falrcrcd,  "you  must  not  shelter  me  if  he  is 
thus  determined.    He  will  take  vengeance  on  you." 

The  ph}sician  smiled.  "He  dares  not.  He  is  afraid  of 
tlic  stars.  He  knows  also  that  I  hold  the  death  of  every  soul 
in  his  house  in  some  small  vial  such  as  this — and  he  does  not 
know  which  one.  He  knows  that  I  have  only  to  reveal  to  any 
minstrel  what  I  know  of  his  plans  and  his  doings,  and  he  would 
be  driven  from  the  court  of  his  own  sovereign.  He  can  never 
be  sure  what  I  am  going  to  do,  and  he  does  not  know  himself 
what  he  is  going  to  do,  so  that  he  fears  every  one.  By  the 
twelve  Houses  of  Fate,  it  must  be  unpleasant  to  be  so  given 
over  to  hatred  I 

"Now,  my  son,  let  us  consider.  You  heard  what  Christian 
said  but  now  of  the  need  of  the  House  of  Anjou  for  faithful 
service.  A  trouvere  can  go  where  others  cannot.  He  knows 
what  others  dare  not  ask.  He  can  say  what  others  cannot. 
Were  it  not  for  that  prince  of  mischief  and  minstrelsy,  Bertran 
de  Born,  Henry  and  his  folk  would  have  been  at  peace  long 
ago.  Know  men's  hearts,  and  though  you  are  a  beggar  in  the 
market-place,  you  can  turn  them  as  a  man  turns  a  stream  with 
a  wooden  dam.  You  shall  go  with  Christian  to  Troyes  and 
thence  to  Tours,  and  I  will  keep  your  little  friend  here  until 
he  is  restored,  and  bring  him  to  you  when  I  come  to  that  place. 
If  search  is  made  for  you  it  will  be  made  in  Venice,  where  they 
think  you  have  gone." 

Ranulph,  with  the  aid  of  his  new  friends,  went  forth  with 
proper  harp  and  new  raiment  a  day  or  two  afterward,  and 
repaid  the  loan  of  old  Tomaso  when  he  met  the  latter  in  Tours 


THE  GRASSHOPPERS'  LIBRAE  ^3 

some  six  months  later.  He  did  not  pivc  up  his  studies  in  the 
Grasshoppers'  Library,  but  the  lean  years  were  at  an  end  botli 
for  him  and  for  Zipero. 


THE  WOOD-CARVER'S  MSION 

The  Hounds  of  Gabriel   racing  with  the  gale. 

Baying  wild  music  past  the  tossing  trees, 

The  Ship  of  Souls  with  moonlight-silvered  sail 

High  over  storm-swept  seas, 
The  faun-folk  scampering  to  their  dim  abode, 
The  goblin  elves  that  haunt  the  forest  road, 
With  visage  of  the  snake  and  eft  and  toad, — 
I  carve  them  as  I  please. 

Bertrand's  gray  saintly  patriarchs  of  stone, 

Angelo  the  Pisan's  gold-starred  sapphire  sky. 
Marc's  Venice  glass,  a  jeweled  rose  full-blown, — 

Envy  of  none  have  I. 
Mine  be  the  basilisk  with  mitered  head. 
And  loup-garou  and  mermaid,  captive  led 
By  little  tumbling  cherubs  who, — 'tis  said, — 
Are   all   but  seen   to  fly. 

Why  hold  we  here  these  demons  in  the  light 

Of  the  High  Altar,  by  God's  candles  cast? 
They  are  the  heathen  creatures  of  the  night. 

In  heavenly  bonds  made  fast. 
They  are  set  here,  that  for  all  time  to  be, 
When  God's  own  peace  broods  over  earth  and  sea, 
Men  may  remember,  in  a  world  set  free. 
The  terrors  that  are  past. 


V 
THE    BOX    THAT    QUENTIN    CARVED 

HOW    QUENTIN    OF    PERONNE    LEARNED    HIS    TRADE    WHEN    A 

BOY  IN  AMIENS 

ANY  one  who  happened  to  be  in  the  market-place  of 
Amiens  one  sunshiny  summer  morning  in  the  last  quar- 
ter of  the  twelfth  century,  might  have  seen  a  slim, 
dark,  dreamy-eyed  boy  wandering  about  with  teeth  set 
in  a  ripe  golden  apricot,  looking  at  all  there  was  to  be  seen. 
But  the  chances  were  that  no  one  who  was  there  did  see  him, 
because  people  were  very  busy  with  their  own  affairs,  and 
there  was  much  to  look  at,  far  more  important  and  interesting 
than  a  boy.  In  fact  Quentin,  who  had  come  with  his  father, 
Jean  of  Peronne,  to  town  that  very  morning,  was  not  impor- 
tant to  any  one  except  his  father  and  himself. 

They  had  been  living  in  a  small  village  of  Northern  France, 
where  they  had  a  tiny  farm,  but  when  the  mother  died,  Jean 
left  the  two  older  boys  to  take  care  of  the  fields,  and  with  his 
youngest  son,  who  was  most  like  the  mother,  started  out  to 
find  work  elsewhere.  He  was  a  good  mason,  and  masons  were 
welcome  anywhere.  In  all  French  cities  and  many  towns 
cathedrals,  castles  or  churches  were  a-building,  and  no  one 
would  think  of  building  them  of  anything  but  stone. 

While  Quentin  speculated  on  life  as  it  might  be  in  this  new 

57 


58  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

and  interesting  place,  there  was  a  shout  of  warning,  a  cry  of 
terror  from  a  woman  near  by,  a  dull  rumble  and  crash,  and  a 
crowd  began  to  gather  in  the  street  beside  the  cathedral.  Be- 
fore the  boy  could  reach  the  place,  a  man  in  the  garb  of  a 
Benedictine  monk  detached  himself  from  the  grouj)  and  came 
toward  him. 

"My  boy,"  he  said  kindly,  "you  are  Quentin,  from  Peronne^ 
VesV  Do  not  be  frightened,  but  I  must  tell  you  that  your 
father  has  been  hurt.  They  are  taking  him  to  a  house  near  by, 
and  if  you  will  come  with  me,  I  will  take  care  of  you." 

The  next  few  days  were  anxious  ones  for  Quentin.  His 
father  did  not  die,  but  it  was  certain  that  he  would  do  no  more 
work  as  a  mason  for  years,  if  ever.  One  of  the  older  brothers 
came  to  take  him  home,  and  it  was  taken  for  granted  that 
Quentin  would  go  also.    But  the  boy  had  a  plan  in  his  head. 

There  was  none  too  much  to  eat  at  home,  as  it  was,  and  it 
would  be  a  long  time  before  he  was  strong  enough  to  handle 
stone  like  his  father.  Brother  Basil,  the  monk  who  had  seen 
his  father  caught  under  the  falling  wall,  helped  to  rescue  him, 
and  taken  care  that  he  did  not  lose  sight  of  his  boy,  had  been 
very  kind,  but  he  did  not  belong  in  Amiens;  he  was  on  his  way 
to  Rome.  Quentin  met  him  outside  the  house  on  the  day  that 
Pierre  came  in  from  Peronne,  and  gave  him  a  questioning  look. 
He  was  wondering  if  Brother  Basil  would  understand. 

The  smile  that  answered  his  look  was  encouraging. 

"Well,  my  boy,"  said  Brother  Basil  in  his  auaintly  spoken 
French,  "what  is  it*?" 

Quentin  stood  very  straight,  cap  in  hand.  "I  do  not  want 
to  go  home,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  want  to  stay  here — and 
work." 


THE  BOX  THAT  OUENTIN  CARVED  59 

"Alone?"  asked  the  monk. 

Ouentin  nodded.  "Marc  and  Pierre  work  all  day  in  the 
fields,  and  I  am  of  no  use  there;  they  said  so.  Pierre  said  it 
again  just  now.  I  am  nuc  strong  enough  yet  to  be  of  use. 
There  is  work  here  that  I  can  do." 

He  traced  the  outline  of  an  ancient  bit  of  carving  on  the 
woodwork  of  the  overhanging  doorway  with  one  small  finger. 
"I  can  do  that,"  he  said  confidently. 

Brother  Basil's  black  eyebrows  lifted  a  trifle  and  his  mouth 
twitched ;  the  boy  was  such  a  scrap  of  a  boy.  Yet  he  had  seen 
enough  of  the  oaken  choir-stalls  and  the  carved  chests  and  the 
wainscoting  of  Amiens  to  know  that  a  French  wood-carver  is 
often  born  with  skill  in  his  brain  and  his  fingers,  and  can  do 
things  when  a  mere  apprentice  that  others  must  be  trained  to 
do.    "What  have  you  done?"  he  said  gravely. 

"I  carved  a  box  for  the  mother,  and  when  the  cousin  Adele 
saw  it  she  would  have  one  too.  It  was  made  with  a  wreath 
of  roses  on  the  lid,  but  I  would  not  make  roses  for  any  one  but 
the  mother;  Adele's  box  has  lilies,  and  a  picture  of  herself. 
That  she  liked  better." 

Brother  Basil  was  thinking.  "Ouentin,"  he  said,  "I  know  a 
wood-carver  here,  Master  Gerard,  who  is  from  Peronne,  and 
knows  your  talk  better  than  I.  He  was  a  boy  like  you  when 
he  began  to  learn  the  work  of  the  huchier  and  the  wood-carver, 
and  he  might  give  you  a  place  in  his  shop.  Will  your  father 
let  you  stay?" 

"He  will  if  I  get  the  chance,"  said  Ouentin.  "If  I  ask  him 
now,  Pierre  will  say  things." 

Like  many  younger  brothers,  Ouentin  knew  more  about  the 
older  members  of  his  family  than  they  knew  about  him. 


Co  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Brother  Basil's  smile  escaped  control  this  time.  He  turned 
and  strode  across  the  market-place  to  the  shop  of  Master 
Gerard,  beckoning  Quentin  to  follow. 

"Master,"  he  said  to  the  old  huchier,  who  was  planing  and 
chipping  and  shaping  a  piece  of  Spanish  chestnut,  "here  is  a 
boy  who  has  fallen  in  love  with  your  trade." 

Master  Gerard  glanced  up  in  some  surprise.  "He  likes  the 
trade,  does  he*?"  was  the  gruff  comment  he  made.  "Does  the 
trade  like  him?" 

"That  is  for  you  to  say,"  said  Brother  Basil,  and  turning 
on  his  heel  he  went  out,  to  walk  up  and  down  in  the  sunshine 
before  the  door  and  meditate  on  the  loves  of  craftsmen  for 
their  crafts. 

"What  can  you  do'?"  asked  the  old  man  shortly,  still  work- 
ing at  his  piece  of  chestnut. 

Ouentin  took  from  his  pouch  a  bit  of  wood  on  which  he  had 
carved,  very  carefully,  the  figure  of  a  monk  at  a  reading-desk 
with  a  huge  volume  before  him.  He  had  done  it  the  day 
before  after  he  had  been  with  Brother  Basil  to  bring  some 
books  from  the  Bishop's  house,  and  although  the  figure  was  too 
small  and  his  knife  had  been  too  clumsy  to  make  much  of  a 
portrait  of  the  face,  he  had  caught  exactly  the  intent  pose  of 
the  head  and  the  characteristic  attitude  of  the  monk's  angular 
figure.    Master  Gerard  frowned. 

"What  sort  of  carving  is  that  I"  he  barked.  "The  wood  is 
coarse  and  the  tools  were  not  right.    You  tell  me  you  did  it?" 

Quentin  stood  his  ground.  "It  is  my  work.  Master,"  he 
said.  "I  had  only  this  old  knife,  and  I  know  the  wood  is  not 
right,  but  it  was  all  that  I  had." 


THE  BOX  THAT  QUENTIN  CARVED  61 

"And  you  want  to  Iciirn  my  trade — vht'  said  the  old  man 
:i  little  more  kindly.    "You  have  no  father'^" 

Quentin  explained.  Master  Gerard  looked  doubtful.  He 
had  met  boys  before  who  liked  to  whittle,  and  wished  to  work 
in  his  shop;  he  had  apprentices  whose  fathers  were  good  work- 
men and  wished  their  sons  to  learn  more  than  they  could 
teach;  but  very  seldom  did  he  meet  a  bo}'  who  would  work  as 
he  himself  had  worked  when  he  was  a  lad,  never  satisfied 
with  what  he  did,  because  the  vision  in  his  mind  ran  ahead  of 
the  power  in  his  fingers.  He  was  an  old  man  now,  but  he  was 
still  seeing  what  might  be  done  in  wood- working  if  a  man 
could  only  have  a  chance  to  come  back,  after  he  had  spent  one 
lifetime  in  learning,  and  use  what  he  had  learned,  in  the 
Strength  of  a  new,  clear-sighted  youth.  He  had  sons  of  his 
own,  but  they  were  only  good  business  men.  They  could  sell 
the  work,  but  they  had  no  inspirations. 

"I  will  let  you  try  what  you  can  do,"  he  said  at  last,  ''that 
is,  if  your  father  is  willing.  Tell  him  to  come  and  see  me  be- 
fore he  goes  home.  And  look  you — come  back  when  you  have 
told  him  this,  and  copy  this  work  of  yours  in  the  proper 
fashion,  with  tools  and  wood  which  I  will  give  you." 

Quentin  bowed,  thanked  the  old  wood-carver,  walked,  by  a 
great  effort,  steadily  out  of  the  shop  and  answered  a  question 
of  Brother  Basil's,  and  then  flashed  like  a  squirrel  in  a  hurry 
across  the  square  and  up  the  narrow  winding  stair  in  the  side 
street  where  his  father  lodged,  with  the  news.  Pierre  began 
two  or  three  sentences,  but  never  finished  them.  Jean  ot 
Peronne  knew  all  about  Master  Gerard,  and  was  only  too  glad 
to  hear  of  such  a  chance  for  his  motherless  boy.  And  all  the 
happy,  sunlit  afternoon  Quentin  sat  in  a  corner,  working  away 


62  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

with  keen-edged  tools  that  were  a  joy  to  the  hand,  at  a 
smooth-grained,  close-libered  bit  of  wood  that  never  spUntered 
or  split. 

Master  Gerard  was  what  might  be  called  a  carpenter,  or 
cabinet-maker.  He  did  not  make  doors  or  window-frames,  or 
woodwork  for  houses,  because  the  great  houses  of  that  day 
were  built  almost  entirely  of  stone.  Neither  did  he  make  fur- 
niture such  as  chairs,  tables,  or  bureaus,  because  it  was  not  yet 
thought  of.  Kings'  households  and  great  families  moved 
about  from  castle  to  castle,  and  carried  with  them  by  boat, 
or  in  heavy  wagons  over  bad  roads,  whatever  comforts  they 
owned.  Modern  furniture  would  have  been  fit  for  kindling- 
wood  in  a  year,  but  ancient  French  luggage  was  built  for  hard 
travel.  Master  Gerard  made  chests  of  solid,  well-seasoned 
wood,  chosen  with  care  and  put  together  without  nails,  by 
fitting  notch  into  notch  at  the  corners.  These  were  called 
huches,  and  Master  Gerard  was  a  master  huchier. 

These  huches  were  longer  and  lower  than  a  large  modern 
trunk,  and  could  be  set  one  on  another,  after  they  were  carried 
up  narrow  twisting  stairways  on  men's  shoulders.  The  lid 
might  be  all  in  one  piece,  but  more  often  it  was  in  halves,  with 
a  bar  between,  so  that  when  the  chest  was  set  on  its  side  or  end 
the  lids  would  form  doors.  Ledges  at  top  and  bottom  pro- 
tected the  corners  and  edges,  and  there  might  be  feet  that  fitted 
into  the  bottom  of  the  chest  and  made  it  easier  to  move  about. 
The  larger  ones  were  long  enough  to  use  for  a  bed,  and  in  these 
the  tapestries  that  covered  the  walls,  the  embroidered  bed- 
hangings,  the  cushions  and  mattresses  to  make  hard  seats  and 
couches  more  comfortable,  and  the  magnificent  robes  for  state 
occasions,  could  be  packed  for  any  sort  of  journey.     Huches 


THE  BOX  THAT  OUENTIN  CARVED  63 

were  needed  also  for  silver  and  gold  state  dishes,  and  the 
spices,  preserved  fruits  and  other  luxuries  needed  for  state 
feasts.  It  was  desirable  to  make  the  chests  beautiful  as  well 
as  strong,  for  they  were  used  as  furniture;  there  might  be  a 
state  bedstead,  a  huge  wardrobe  and  one  or  two  other  furnish- 
ings in  the  apartments  used  by  great  folk,  but  the  table  was  a 
movable  one  made  of  boards  on  trestles,  and  the  carved  huches, 
decorated  with  the  heraldic  emblems  of  the  owner,  served 
innumerable  purposes.  When  one  sees  the  specimens  that  are 
left,  it  does  not  seem  surprising  that  when  kings  and  queens 
went  anywhere  in  the  Middle  Ages  they  went,  if  possible,  by 
water.  Luggage  of  that  kind  could  be  carried  more  easily  by 
barge  than  by  wagon. 

After  the  first  day,  when  he  finished  the  small  carved  figure 
of  Brother  Basil  for  his  master  to  see,  Quentin  did  almost 
anything  but  carving.  He  ran  errands,  he  sharpened  tools,  he 
helped  a  journeyman  at  his  work,  he  worked  on  common  car- 
pentering which  required  no  artistic  skill.  The  work  which 
Master  Gerard  undertook  was  not  such  as  an  apprentice  could 
be  trusted  to  do.  Quentin,  watching  as  closely  as  he  could  all 
that  was  done  in  the  shop,  saw  that  one  sort  of  wood  was 
chosen  for  one  use,  and  another  kind  for  a  different  job;  he 
saw  how  a  tool  was  handled  to  get  a  free,  bold  curve  or  a  deli- 
cate fold  of  drapery,  and  he  found  out  more  about  the  trade  in 
a  year  than  most  modem  carpenters  ever  learn. 

It  was  hot  and  uncomfortable  in  Amiens  that  summer.  Life 
inside  walls,  among  houses  crowded  and  tall,  was  not  like 
life  in  a  country  village,  but  it  was  not  in  Quentin  to  give  up. 
When  he  felt  like  leaving  the  noisy,  treeless  town  for  the  forest 
he  would  try  to  make  a  design  of  the  flowers  he  remembered. 


64  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

or  carve  u  knotted  branch  with  the  tools  that  he  was  allowed 
to  use.  He  knew  that  when  he  should  be  entrusted  with  the 
carving  of  a  chest,  if  that  time  ever  came,  he  would  have  to 
be  able  to  make  his  own  design,  if  necessary,  for  that  was  a 
part  of  the  work. 

Chests  were  carved  on  the  lids  and  ends,  which  showed  when 
they  were  set  up,  and  sometimes  they  were  covered  with  carv- 
ing. Master  Gerard  had  a  chest  of  his  own,  full  of  patterns 
which  he  brought  out  to  show  his  patrons  now  and  then,  but 
which  no  one  else  ever  touched.  These  patterns,  however, 
were  rarely  followed  exactly.  Each  great  family  had  its  own 
heraldic  device,  and  the  leopard,  the  dragon,  the  dolphin,  the 
fleur-de-lis,  the  portcullis,  or  whatever  it  might  be,  must  form 
an  important  part  of  the  decoration.  Some  of  the  patterns, 
while  their  proportions  were  perfect,  were  too  simple  for  the 
taste  of  the  one  who  ordered  the  chest,  and  had  to  be  varied. 
Some  were  too  elaborate  for  a  small  piece  of  work,  and  had 
to  be  made  simpler.  The  wood-carver  had  very  little  chance 
of  success  unless  he  was  also  an  artist,  as  he  usually  was. 

One  day  a  great  piece  of  carving  was  finished,  and  Master 
Gerard  himself  went  to  see  that  the  workmen  carried  it  safely; 
it  was  a  chest  in  the  form  of  a  half-circle,  for  the  tapestries  and 
embroideries  of  the  cathedral,  in  which  the  state  mantle  and 
robes  of  the  Bishop  could  be  laid  flat  with  all  their  heavy 
gold-work.  The  youngest  journeyman,  Pol,  who  was  left  to 
mind  the  shop,  slipped  out  a  few  minutes  later,  charging 
Ouentin  strictly  to  stay  until  he  came  back. 

Ouentin  had  no  objection.  He  wanted  to  try  a  pattern  of 
his  own  for  a  small  huche  that  was  finished  all  but  the  carving. 
He  had  in  mind  a  pattern  of  Master  Gerard's,  a  border  simple 


THE  BOX  THAT  OUENTIN  CARVED  65 

yet  beautiful.  It  was  copied  troni  the  inner  wall  of  a  Greek 
temple,  although  he  did  not  know  that.  It  was  a  running  vine 
with  leaves  and  now  and  then  a  flower,  not  like  any  vine  that 
he  had  ever  seen.  The  inclosed  oblong  on  the  lid  was  divided 
into  halves  by  a  bar,  in  the  form  of  a  woman's  figure.  Ouentin 
thought  that  that  was  rather  too  stately  a  decoration  for  a 
small  chest,  and  he  decided  to  use  a  simple  rounded  bar,  with 
grooves,  which  he  knew  that  he  could  do  well. 

He  was  not  sure  how  the  border  went.  Of  course,  he  might 
wait  until  Master  Gerard  came  back  and  ask  to  see  the  pattern, 
but  he  did  not  quite  like  to  do  that.  It  might  seem  presuming. 
He  wondered  how  it  would  do  to  try  apricot  twigs  laid  stem 
to  tip  in  a  curving  line,  a  ripe  fruit  in  place  of  the  flower  of 
the  pattern,  and  blossom-clusters  here  and  there.  He  tried  it 
cautiously,  drawing  the  outline  first  on  a  corner,  and  it  looked 
so  well  that  he  began  to  carve  the  twigs. 

He  was  finishing  the  second  when  he  heard  a  voice  in  the 
doorway. 

"Does  Master  Gerard  do  his  work  with  elves?  Or  have  the 
fairies  taken  him  and  left  a  changeling?"  The  voice  was 
musical  with  laughter,  and  the  boy  looked  up  to  see  a  lovely 
and  richly-robed  lady  standing  within  the  door.  A  little  be- 
hind her  was  a  young  man  in  the  dress  of  a  troubadour,  and 
servingmen  stood  outside  holding  the  bridles  of  the  horses. 

Quentin  sprang  to  his  feet  and  bowed  respectfully.  "Mas- 
ter Gerard  is  but  absent  for  an  hour  or  two,"  he  said;  "shall  I 
run  to  the  Cathedral  and  fetch  him?" 

"Nay,"  the  lady  answered,  sinking  into  the  high-backed 
chair  in  the  comer,  "it  is  cool  here,  and  we  will  await  him. 
Ranulph,  come  look  at  this  coffret.    I  maintain  that  the  fairies 


UPON    MY    WORD,    THE    RACE    OF    WOOD-CARVERS    HAS    NOT 
YET  COME  TO  AN    END'  " 


THE  BOX  THAT  QUENTIN  CARVED  67 

teach  these  people  to  work  in  wood  as  they  do.  Saw  you  ever 
the  like?' 

The  troubadour  bent  over  the  just-begun  carving.  "This  is 
no  boy's  play;  this  is  good  work,"  he  said.  "You  have  the 
right  notion ;  the  eye  and  the  hand  work  together  like  two  good 
comrades." 

"My  lord  shall  see  this  when  he  comes.  I  like  the  work." 
She  touched  the  cheek  of  the  apricot  with  a  dainty  finger. 
"Where  did  you  get  the  pattern'?" 

Quentin  looked  down,  rather  shyly;  he  did  not  feel  sure 
that  he  would  be  believed.  "I  had  no  pattern,"  he  said.  "I 
remembered  one  that  Master  Gerard  made  for  a  great  house 
a  month  since " 


"And  so  do  I!"  laughed  the  lady.  "Now  I  know  where  I 
saw  that  border.  Therefore,  not  having  the  copy  before 
you " 

"You  invented  this  variation.  Upon  my  word,  the  race  of 
wood-carvers  has  not  come  to  an  end,"  laughed  the  young 
man.  "I  think  that  his  Royal  Highness  will  like  this  coffret 
well." 

All  in  a  flash  it  came  to  Quentin  who  this  was.  Some  time 
before  he  had  heard  that  the  Princess  Margaret,  daughter  of 
the  French  King,  was  in  the  city,  with  her  husband.  Prince 
Henry  of  England.  It  was  for  the  Prince  that  Master  Gerard 
had  made  that  other  chest.  Things  linked  themselves  together 
in  this  world,  it  seemed,  like  the  apricots  and  blossoms  of  his 
design. 

"Finish  the  chest,"  said  the  Princess  after  a  pause.  "I  will 
have  it  for  a  traveling  casket.  Can  you  carve  a  head  on  the 
top — or  two  heads,  facing  one  another,  man  and  woman?" 


68  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

"Like  this^"  asked  Ouentin,  iind  he  traced  an  outline  on 
the  bench.    It  was  the  lady's  beautiful  profile. 

Master  Gerard  came  in  just  then,  and  Pol  came  slinking  in 
at  the  back  door.  The  next  day  Quentin  was  promoted  to 
Pol's  place,  and  finished  his  chest  in  great  content  and  happi- 
ness.   It  was  the  beginning  in  a  long  upward  climb  to  success. 


THE  CAGED  BOUVEREL 

I  am  a  little  finch  with  wings  of  gold, 

I  dwell  within  a  cage  upon  the  wall. 
I  cannot  fly  within  my  narrow  fold, — 

I  eat,  and  drink,  and  sing,  and  that  is  all. 
My  good  old  master  talks  to  me  sometimes, 

But  if  he  knows  my  speech  I  cannot  tell. 
He  is  so  large  he  cannot  sing  nor  fly, 

But  he  and  I  are  both  named  Bouverel. 

I  think  perhaps  he  really  wants  to  sing, 

Because  the  busy  hammer  that  he  wields 
Goes  clinking  light  as  merry  bells  that  ring 

When  morris-dancers  frolic  in  the  fields, 
And  this  is  what  the  music  seems  to  tell 
To  me,  the  finch,  the  feathered  Bouverel. 

"Kling-a-ling — clack ! 

Masters,  what  do  ye  lack? 

Hammer  your  heart  in't,  and  strike  with  a  knack !  i 

Flackety  kling —  | 

Biff,  batico,  bing!  i 

Platter,  cup,  candlestick,  necklace  or  ring!  I 

Spare  not  your  labor,  lads,  make  the  gold  sing, —  j 

And  some  day  perhaps  ye  may  work  for  the  King  1"  ^ 


VI 


AT   THE    SIGN    OF   THE    GOLD    FINCH 


HOW   GUY,   THE   GOLDSMITH  S   APPRENTICE,    WON    THE   DESIRE 

OF    HIS    HEART 


B 


ANG — slam — bang-bang — slam  I  slam!  slam  I 

If  anybody  on  the  Chepe  in  the  twelfth  century  had 

ever  heard  of  rifle-practice,   early  risers  thereabouts 

might  have  been  reminded  of  the  crackle  of  guns.    The 

noise  was  made  by  the  taking  down  of  shutters  all  along  the 

shop  fronts,  and  stacking  them  together  out  of  the  way.    The 

business  day  in  London  still  begins  in  the  same  way,  but  now 

71 


72  IN  1  HE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

there  are  plate-glass  windows  inside  the  shutters,  and  the 
shops  open  between  eight  and  nine  instead  of  soon  after  day- 
break. 

It  was  the  work  of  the  apprentices  and  the  young  sons  of 
shof>-keepers  to  take  down  the  shutters,  sweep  the  floors,  and 
})ut  things  in  order  for  the  business  of  the  day.  This  was  the 
task  which  Guy,  nephew  of  Gamelyn  the  goldsmith,  at  the  sign 
of  the  Gold  Finch,  particularly  liked.  The  air  blew  sweet  and 
fresh  from  the  convent  gardens  to  the  eastward  of  the  city,  or 
up  the  river  below  London  Bridge,  or  down  from  the  forest- 
clad  hills  of  the  north,  and  those  who  had  the  first  draft  of 
it  were  in  luck.  London  streets  were  narrow  and  twisty-wise, 
but  not  overhung  with  coal  smoke,  for  the  city  still  burned 
wood  from  the  forests  without  the  walls. 

On  this  May  morning,  Guy  was  among  the  first  of  the  boys 
who  tumbled  out  from  beds  behind  the  counter  and  began  to 
open  the  shops.  The  shop-fronts  were  all  uninclosed  on  the 
first  floor,  and  when  the  shutters  were  down  the  shop  was 
separated  from  the  street  only  by  the  counter.  Above  were 
the  rooms  in  which  the  shop-keeper  and  his  family  lived,  and 
the  second  story  often  jutted  over  the  one  below  and  made  a 
kind  of  covered  porch.  In  some  of  the  larger  shops,  like  this 
one  of  Goldsmiths'  Row,  the  jewelers'  street,  there  was  a  third 
story  which  could  be  used  as  a  storeroom.  There  were  no  glass 
cases  or  glass  windows.  Lattices  and  shutters  were  used  in 
window-openings,  and  the  goods  of  finer  quality  were  kept  in 
wooden  chests.  The  shop  was  also  a  work-room,  for  the  shop- 
keeper was  a  manufacturer  as  well,  and  a  part  if  not  all  that 
he  sold  was  made  in  his  own  house. 

Guy,  having  stacked  away  the  shutters  and  taken  a  drink 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLD  FINCH         73 

of  water  from  the  well  in  the  little  garden  at  the  rear,  got 
a  broom  and  began  to  sweep  the  stone  floor.  It  was  like  the 
brooms  in  pictures  of  witches,  a  bundle  of  fresh  twigs  bound 
on  the  end  of  a  stick,  withes  of  supple  young  willow  being 
used  instead  of  cord.  Some  of  the  twigs  in  the  broom  had 
sprouted  green  leaves.  Guy  sang  as  he  swept  the  trash  out 
into  the  middle  of  the  street,  but  as  a  step  came  down  the 
narrow  stair  he  hushed  his  song.  When  old  Gamelyn  had 
rheumatism  the  less  noise  there  was,  the  better.  The  five 
o'clock  breakfast,  a  piece  of  brown  bread,  a  bit  of  herring  and 
a  horn  cup  of  ale,  was  soon  finished,  and  then  the  goldsmith, 
rummaging  among  his  wares,  hauled  a  leather  sack  out  of  a 
chest  and  bade  Guy  run  with  it  to  Ely  House. 

This  was  an  unexpected  pleasure,  especially  for  a  spring 
morning  as  fair  as  a  blossoming  almond  tree.  The  Bishop  of 
Ely  lived  outside  London  Wall,  near  the  road  to  Oxford,  and 
his  house  was  like  a  palace  in  a  fairy-tale.  It  had  a  chapel  as 
stately  as  an  ordinary  church,  a  great  banquet-hall,  and  acres 
of  gardens  and  orchards.  No  pleasanter  place  could  be  found 
for  an  errand  in  May.  Guy  trotted  along  in  great  satisfaction, 
making  all  the  speed  he  could,  for  the  time  he  saved  on  the 
road  he  might  have  to  look  about  in  Ely  House. 

For  a  city  boy,  he  was  extremely  fond  of  country  ways. 
He  liked  to  walk  out  on  a  holiday  to  Mile  End  between  the 
convent  gardens;  he  liked  to  watch  the  squirrels  flyte  and  frisk 
among  the  huge  trees  of  Epping  Forest;  he  liked  to  follow  at 
the  heels  of  the  gardener  at  Ely  House  and  see  what  new  plant, 
shrub  or  seed  some  traveler  from  far  lands  had  brought  for  the 
Bishop.  He  did  not  care  much  for  the  city  houses,  even  for 
the  finest  ones,  unless  they  had  a  garden.    Privately  he  thought 


74  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

that  it  v\cT  he  had  his  uncle's  shop  and  became  rich, — and  his 
uncle  had  no  son  of  his  own, — he  would  have  a  house  outside 
the  wall,  with  a  garden  in  which  he  would  grow  fruits  and 
vegetables  for  his  tabic.  Another  matter  on  which  his  mind 
was  quite  made  up  was  the  kind  of  things  that  would  be  made 
in  the  shop  when  he  had  it.  The  gold  finch  that  served  for  a 
sign  had  been  made  by  his  grandfather,  who  came  from  Li- 
moges, and  it  was  handsomer  than  anything  that  Guy  had  seen 
there  in  Gamelyn's  day.  Silver  and  gold  work  was  often  sent 
there  to  be  repaired,  like  the  cup  he  had  in  the  bag,  a  silver 
wine-cup  which  the  Bishop's  steward  now  wanted  at  once; 
but  Guy  wanted  to  learn  to  make  such  cups,  and  candlesticks, 
and  finely  wrought  banquet-dishes  himself. 

He  gave  the  cup  to  the  steward  and  was  told  to  come  back 
for  his  money  after  tierce,  that  is,  after  the  service  at  the  third 
hour  of  the  day,  about  half  way  between  sunrise  and  noon. 
There  were  no  clocks,  and  Guy  would  know  when  it  was  time 
to  go  back  by  the  sound  of  the  church  bells.  The  hall  was  full 
of  people  coming  and  going  on  various  errands.  One  was  a 
tired-looking  man  in  a  coarse  robe,  and  broad  hat,  rope  girdle, 
and  sandals,  who,  when  he  was  told  that  the  Bishop  was  at 
Westminster  on  business  with  the  King,  looked  so  disappointed 
that  Guy  felt  sorry  for  him.  The  boy  slipped  into  the  garden 
for  a  talk  with  his  old  friend  the  gardener,  who  gave  him  a 
head  of  new  lettuce  and  some  young  mustard,  both  of  which 
were  uncommon  luxuries  in  a  London  household  of  that  day, 
and  some  roots  for  the  tiny  walled  garden  which  he  and  Aunt 
Joan  were  doing  their  best  to  keep  up.  As  he  came  out  of  the 
gate,  having  got  his  money,  he  saw  the  man  he  had  noticed 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLD  FINCH         75 

before  sitting  by  the  roadside  trying  to  fasten  his  sandal.  The 
string  was  worn  out. 

A  boy's  pocket  usually  has  string  in  it.  Guy  found  a  piece 
of  leather  thong  in  his  pouch  and  rather  shyly  held  it  out. 
The  man  looked  up  with  an  odd  smile. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said  in  curious  formal  English  with  a  lisp 
in  it.  "There  is  courtesy,  then,  among  Londoners'?  I  began  to 
think  none  here  cared  for  anything  but  money,  and  yet  the 
finest  things  in  the  world  are  not  for  sale." 

Guy  did  not  know  what  to  answer,  but  the  idea  interested 
him. 

"The  sky  above  our  heads,"  the  wayfarer  went  on,  looking 
with  narrowed  eyes  at  the  pink  may  spilling  over  the  gray  wall 
of  the  Bishop's  garden, — "flowers,  birds,  music,  these  are  for 
all.  When  you  go  on  pilgrimage  you  find  out  how  pleasant  is 
the  world  when  you  need  not  think  of  gain." 

The  stranger  was  a  pilgrim,  then.  That  accounted  for  the 
clothes,  but  old  Gamelyn  had  been  on  pilgrimage  to  the  new 
shrine  at  Canterbury,  and  it  had  not  helped  his  rheumatism 
much,  and  certainly  had  given  him  no  such  ideas  as  these. 
Guy  looked  up  at  the  weary  face  with  the  brilliant  eyes  and 
smile, — they  were  walking  together  now, — and  wondered. 

"And  what  do  you  in  London'?"  the  pilgrim  asked. 

"My  uncle  is  a  goldsmith  in  Chepe,"  said  the  boy. 

"And  are  you  going  to  be  a  goldsmith  in  Chepe  too*?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Then  you  like  not  the  plan?" 

Guy  hesitated.  He  never  had  talked  of  his  feeling  about 
the  business,  but  he  felt  that  this  man  would  see  what  he 
meant.     "I  should  like  it  better  than  anything,"  he  said,  "if 


76  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

we  made  things  like  those  the  Bisliop  has.  Uncle  Gamclyn 
says  that  there  is  no  profit  in  them,  because  they  take  the  finest 
metal  and  the  time  of  the  best  workmen,  and  the  pay  is  no 
more,  and  folk  do  not  want  them." 

"My  boy,"  said  the  pilgrim  earnestly,  "there  are  always 
folk  who  want  the  best.     There  are  always  men  who  will 

make  only  the  best,  and  when  the  two  come  together " 

He  clapped  his  hollowed  palms  like  a  pair  of  cymbals. 
"Would  you  like  to  make  a  dish  as  blue  as  the  sea,  with  figures 
of  the  saints  in  gold  work  and  jewel-work — a  gold  cup  gar- 
landed in  flowers  all  done  in  their  own  color, — a  shrine  three- 
fold, framing  pictures  of  the  saints  and  studded  with  orfrey- 
work  of  gold  and  gems,  yet  so  beautiful  in  the  mere  work  that 
no  one  would  think  of  the  jewels'?    Would  you?" 

"Would  I !"  said  Guy  with  a  deep  quick  breath. 

"Our  jewelers  of  Limoges  make  all  these,  and  when  kings 
and  their  armies  come  from  the  Crusades  they  buy  of  us  thank- 
offerings, — candlesticks,  altar-screens,  caskets,  chalices,  gold 
and  silver  and  enamel-work  of  every  kind.  We  sit  at  the 
cross-roads  of  Christendom.  The  jewels  come  to  us  from  the 
mines  of  East  and  West.  Men  come  to  us  with  full  purses  and 
glad  hearts,  desiring  to  give  to  the  Church  costly  gifts  of  their 
treasure,  and  our  best  work  is  none  too  good  for  their  desire. 
But  here  we  are  at  Saint  Paul's.  I  shall  see  you  again,  for  I 
have  business  on  the  Chepe." 

Guy  headed  for  home  as  eagerly  as  a  marmot  in  harvest 
time,  threading  his  way  through  the  crowds  of  the  narrow 
streets  without  seeing  them.  He  could  not  imagine  who  the 
stranger  might  be.  It  was  dinner  time,  and  he  had  to  go  to 
the  cook-shop  and  bring  home  the  roast,  for  families  who  could 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOLD  FINCH         77 

afford  it  patronized  the  cook-shops  on  the  Thames  instead  of 
roasting  and  baking  at  home  in  the  narrow  quarters  of  the 
shops.  In  the  great  houses,  with  their  army  of  servants  and 
roomy  kitchens,  it  was  different;  and  the  very  poor  did  what 
they  could,  as  they  do  everywhere;  but  when  the  wife  and 
daughters  of  the  shopkeeper  served  in  the  shop,  or  worked  at 
embroidery,  needle-craft,  weaving,  or  any  light  work  of  the 
trade  that  they  could  do,  it  was  an  economy  to  have  the  cook- 
ing done  out  of  the  house. 

When  the  shadows  were  growing  long  and  the  narrow  pave- 
ment of  Goldsmith's  Row  was  quite  dark,  some  one  wearing  a 
gray  robe  and  a  broad  hat  came  along  the  street,  slowly,  glanc- 
ing into  each  shop  as  he  passed.  To  Guy's  amazement,  old 
Gamelyn  got  to  his  feet  and  came  forward. 

"Is  it — is  it  thou  indeed,  master?"  he  said,  bowing  again 
and  again.    The  pilgrim  smiled. 

"A  fine  shop  you  have  here,"  he  said,  "and  a  fine  young  bird 
in  training  for  the  sign  of  the  Gold  Finch.  He  and  I  scraped 
acquaintance  this  morning.  Is  he  the  youth  of  whom  you  told 
me  when  we  met  at  Canterbury?" 

It  was  hard  on  Guy  that  just  at  that  moment  his  aunt  Joan 
called  him  to  get  some  water  from  the  well,  but  he  went,  all 
bursting  with  eagerness  as  he  was.  The  pilgrim  stayed  to 
supper,  and  in  course  of  time  Guy  found  out  what  he  had 
come  for. 

He  was  Eloy,  one  of  the  chief  jewelers  of  Limoges,  which 
in  the  Middle  Ages  meant  that  his  work  was  known  in  every 
country  of  Europe,  for  that  city  had  been  as  famous  for  its 
gold  work  ever  since  the  days  of  Clovis  as  it  is  now  for  porce- 
lain.    Enamel-work  was  done  there  as  well,  and  the  cunning 


78  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

workmen  knew  how  to  decorate  gold,  silver,  or  copper  in  colors 
like  vivid  flame,  living  green,  the  blue  of  summer  skies.  Eloy 
offered  to  take  Guy  as  an  apprentice  and  teach  him  all  that  he 
could  for  the  sake  of  the  maker  of  the  Gold  Finch,  who  had 
been  his  own  good  friend  and  master.  It  was  as  if  the  head 
of  one  of  the  great  Paris  studios  should  offer  free  training  for 
the  next  ten  years  to  some  penniless  art  student  of  a  country 
town. 

What  amazed  Guy  more  than  anything  else,  however,  was 
the  discovery  that  his  grumbling  old  uncle,  who  never  had  had 
a  good  word  to  say  for  him  in  the  shop,  had  told  this  great 
artist  about  him  when  they  met  five  years  before,  and  begged 
Eloy  if  ever  he  came  to  London  to  visit  the  Gold  Finch  and  see 
the  little  fellow  who  was  grawing  up  there  to  learn  the  ancient 
craft  in  a  town  where  men  hardly  knew  what  good  work  was. 
Even  now  old  Gamelyn  would  only  say  that  his  nephew  was 
a  good  boy  and  willing,  but  so  painstaking  that  he  would  never 
make  a  tradesman;  he  s]jent  so  much  unnecessary  time  on  his 
work. 

"He  may  be  an  artist,"  said  Eloy  with  a  smile;  and  some 
specimens  of  the  work  which  Guy  did  when  he  was  a  man, 
which  are  now  carefully  kept  in  museums,  prove  that  he  was. 
No  one  knows  how  the  enamel -work  of  Limoges  was  done;  it 
is  only  clear  that  the  men  who  did  it  were  artists.  The  secret 
has  long  been  lost — ever  since  the  city,  centuries  ago,  was 
trampled  under  the  feet  of  war. 


UP  ANCHOR 

Yo-o  heave  ho !  an'  a  y-o  heave  ho ! 

And  lift  her  down  the  bay — • 
We're  off  to  the  Pillars  of  Hercules, 

All  on  a  summer's  day. 
We're  off  wi'  bales  of  our  Southdown  wool, 

Our  fortune  all  to  win, 
And  we'll  bring  ye  gold  and  gowns  o'  silk^ 
Veils  o'  sendal  as  white  as  milk. 
And  sugar  and  spice  galore,  lasses — 

When  our  ship  comes  in! 


VII 
THE    VENTURE    OF    NICHOLAS    GAY 

HOW    NICHOLAS    GAY,    THE    MERCHANT'S    SON,    KEPT    FAITH 
WITH   A   STRANGER  AND   SERVED   THE    KING 

NICHOLAS  GAY  stood  on  the  wharf  by  his  father's 
warehouse,  and  the  fresh  morning  breeze  that  blew  up 
from  the  Pool  of  the  Thames  was  ruffling  his  bright 
hair.  He  could  hear  the  seamen  chanting  at  the  wind- 
lass, and  the  shouts  of  the  boatmen  threading  their  skiffs  and 
scows  in  and  out  among  the  crowded  shipping.  There  were 
high-pooped  Flemish  freighters,  built  to  hold  all  the  cargo 
possible  for  a  brief  voyage;  English  coasting  ships,  lighter  and 
quicker  in  the  chop  of  the  Channel  waves;  larger  and  more 
dignified  London  merchantmen,  that  had  the  best  oak  of  the 
Weald  in  their  bones  and  the  pick  of  the  Southdown  wool  to 
fill  them  full;  Mediterranean  galleys  that  shipped  five  times 
the  crew  and  five  times  the  cargo  of  a  London  ship;  weather- 
beaten  traders  that  had  come  over  the  North  Sea  with  cargoes 
of  salt  fish;  and  many  others. 

The  scene  was  never  twice  the  same,  and  the  boy  never 
tired  of  it.  Coming  into  port  with  a  cargo  of  spices  and  wine 
was  a  long  Mediterranean  galley  with  oars  as  well  as  sails, 
each  oar  pulled  by  a  slave  who  kept  time  with  his  neighbor 
like  a  machine.    The  English  made  their  bid  for  fortune  with 


82  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

the  sailing-ship,  and  even  in  the  twelfth  century,  when  their 
keels  were  rarely  seen  in  any  Eastern  port,  there  was  little  of 
the  rule  of  wind  and  sea  short  of  Gibraltar  that  their  captains 
did  not  know. 

Up  Mart  Lane,  the  steep  little  street  from  the  wharves, 
Nicholas  heard  some  one  singing  a  familiar  chantey,  but  not 
as  the  sailors  sang  it.  He  was  a  slender  youth  with  a  laugh  in 
his  eye,  and  he  was  singing  to  a  guitar-like  lute.  He  was 
piecing  out  the  chantey  and  fitting  words  to  it,  and  succeeding 
rather  well.  Nicholas  stood  by  his  father's  warehouse,  hands 
behind  him  and  eyes  on  the  ship  just  edging  out  to  catch  the 
tide,  and  listened  to  the  song,  his  heart  full  of  dreams. 

"Hey,  there,  youngster!"  said  the  singer  kindly  as  he 
reached  the  end  of  the  strophe,  "Have  you  a  share  in  that 
ship  that  you  watch  her  so  sharply?" 

"No,"  said  Nicholas  gravely,  "she's  not  one  of  father's 
ships.  She's  the  Heath  Hen  of  Weymouth,  and  she's  loaded 
with  wool,  surely,  but  she's  for  Bordeaux." 

"Bless  the  urchin,  he  might  have  been  born  on  board !"  The 
young  man  looked  at  Nicholas  rather  more  attentively.  "Your 
father  has  ships,  then?" 

Nicholas  nodded  proudly.  "The  Rose-in-June^  and  the 
Sainte  Spirite^  and  the  Thomasyn^ — she's  named  for  mother, 
— and  the  Sainte  Genevieve,  because  father  was  born  in  Paris, 
you  know,  and  the  Saint  Nicholas, — that's  named  for  me. 
But  I'm  not  old  enough  to  have  a  venture  yet.  Father  says  I 
shall  some  day." 

The  Pool  of  the  Thames  was  crowded,  and  as  the  wind 
freshened  the  ships  looked  even  more  like  huge  white-winged 
birds.    Around  them  sailed  and  wheeled  and  fluttered  the  real 


THE  VENTURE  OF  NICHOLAS  GAY  83 

sea-birds,  picking  up  their  living  from  the  scraps  thrown  over- 
board,— swans,  gulls,  wild  geese  and  ducks,  here  and  there 
a  strange  bird  lured  to  the  harbor  by  hope  of  spoil.  The  oddly 
mated  companions,  the  man  and  the  boy,  walked  along  busy 
Thames  Street  and  came  to  Tower  Hill  and  the  great  gray 
fortress-towers,  with  a  double  line  of  wall  coiled  around  the 
base,  just  outside  the  City  of  London.  The  deep  wide  moat 
fed  from  the  river  made  an  island  for  the  group  of  buildings 
with  the  square  White  Tower  in  the  middle. 

"None  of  your  friends  live  there,  I  suppose'?"  the  young 
man  inquired,  and  Nicholas  smiled  rather  dubiously,  for  he 
was  not  certain  whether  it  was  a  joke  or  not.  The  Tower  had 
been  prison,  palace  and  fort  by  turns,  but  common  criminals 
were  not  imprisoned  there — only  those  who  had  been  accused 
of  crimes  against  the  State.  "Lucky  you,"  the  youth  added. 
"London  is  much  pleasanter  as  a  residence,  I  assure  you.  I 
lodged  not  far  from  here  when  I  first  came,  but  now  I 
lodge " 

That  sentence  was  never  finished.  Clattering  down  Tower 
Hill  came  a  troop  of  horse,  and  one,  swerving  suddenly,  caught 
Nicholas  between  his  heels  and  the  wall,  and  by  the  time  the 
rider  had  his  animal  under  control  the  little  fellow  was  lying 
senseless  in  the  arms  of  the  stranger,  who  had  dived  in  among 
the  flying  hoofs  and  dragged  him  clear.  The  rider,  lagging 
behind  the  rest,  looked  hard  at  the  two,  and  then  spurred  on 
without  even  stopping  to  ask  whether  he  had  hurt  the  boy. 

Before  Nicholas  had  fairly  come  to  himself  he  shut  his 
teeth  hard  to  keep  from  crying  out  with  the  pain  in  his  side 
and  left  leg.  The  young  man  had  laid  him  carefully  down 
close  by  the  wall,  and  just  as  he  was  looking  about  for  help 


84  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

three  of  the  troopers  came  spurring  back,  dismounted,  and 
pressed  close  around  the  youth  as  one  of  them  said  something 
in  French.  He  straightened  up  and  looked  at  them,  and  in 
spite  of  his  pain  Nicholas  could  not  help  noticing  that  he 
looked  proudly  and  straightforwardly,  as  if  he  were  a  gentle- 
man born.  He  answered  them  in  the  same  language;  they 
shook  their  heads  and  made  gruff,  short  answers.  The  young 
man  laid  his  hand  on  his  dagger,  hesitated,  and  turned  back 
to  Nicholas. 

"Little  lad,"  he  said,  "this  is  indeed  bad  fortune.    They  will 

not  let  me  take  you  home,  but "    So  deftly  that  the  action 

was  hidden  from  the  men  who  stood  by,  he  closed  Nicholas' 
hand  over  a  small  packet,  while  apparently  he  was  only  search- 
ing for  a  coin  in  his  pouch  and  beckoning  to  a  respectable- 
looking  market-woman  who  halted  near  by  just  then.  He 
added  in  a  quick  low  tone  without  looking  at  the  boy,  "Keep  it 
for  me  and  say  nothing." 

Nicholas  nodded  and  slipped  the  packet  into  the  breast  of 
his  doublet,  with  a  groan  which  was  very  real,  for  it  hurt  him 
to  move  that  arm.  The  young  man  rose  and  as  his  captors 
laid  heavy  hands  upon  him  he  put  some  silver  in  the  woman's 
hand,  saying  persuasively,  "This  boy  has  been  badly  hurt.  I 
know  not  who  he  is,  but  see  that  he  gets  home  safely." 

"Aye,  master,"  said  the  woman  compassionately,  and  then 
everything  grew  black  once  more  before  Nicholas'  eyes  as  he 
tried  to  see  where  the  men  were  going.  When  he  came  to  him- 
self they  were  gone,  and  he  told  the  woman  that  he  was  Nicho- 
las Gay  and  that  his  father  was  Gilbert  Gay,  in  Fenchurch 
Street.    The  woman  knew  the  house,  which  was  tile-roofed  and 


THE  VENTURE  OF  NICHOLAS  GAY  85 

three-storied,  and  had  a  garden;  she  called  a  porter  and  sent 
him  for  a  hurdle,  and  they  got  Nicholas  home. 

The  merchant  and  his  wife  were  seriously  disturbed  over  the 
accident, — not  only  because  the  boy  was  hurt,  and  hurt  in  so 
cruel  a  way,  but  because  some  political  plot  or  other  seemed 
to  be  mixed  up  in  it.  From  what  the  market-woman  said  it 
looked  as  if  the  men  might  have  been  officers  of  the  law,  and 
it  was  her  guess  that  the  young  man  was  an  Italian  spy. 
Whatever  he  was,  he  had  been  taken  in  at  the  gates  of  the 
Tower.  In  a  city  of  less  than  fifty  thousand  people,  all  sorts 
of  gossip  is  rife  about  one  faction  and  another,  and  if  Gilbert 
Gay  came  to  be  suspected  by  any  of  the  King's  advisers  there 
were  plenty  of  jealous  folk  ready  to  make  trouble  for  him  and 
his.  Time  went  by,  however,  and  they  heard  nothing  more 
of  it. 

Nicholas  said  nothing,  even  to  his  mother,  of  the  packet 
which  he  had  hidden  under  the  straw  of  his  bed.  It  was 
sealed  with  a  splash  of  red  wax  over  the  silken  knot  that  tied  it, 
and  much  as  he  desired  to  know  what  was  inside,  Nicholas 
had  been  told  by  his  father  that  a  seal  must  never  be  broken 
except  by  the  person  who  had  a  right  to  break  it.  Gilbert  Gay 
had  also  told  his  children  repeatedly  that  if  anything  was 
given  to  them,  or  told  them,  in  confidence,  it  was  most  wrong 
to  say  a  word  about  it.  It  never  occurred  to  Nicholas  that 
perhaps  his  father  would  expect  him  to  tell  of  this.  The 
youth  had  told  him  not  to  tell,  and  he  must  not  tell,  and  that 
was  all  about  it. 

The  broken  rib  and  the  bruises  healed  in  time,  and  by  the 
season  when  the  Rose-in-Jiine  was  due  to  sail,  Nicholas  was 
able  to  limp  into  the  rose-garden  and  play  with  his  little  sister 


86  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Genevieve  at  sailing  rose-petul  boats  in  the  fountain.  The 
time  of  loading  the  ships  for  a  foreign  voyage  was  always 
rather  exciting,  and  this  was  the  best  and  fastest  of  them  all. 
When  she  came  back,  if  the  voyage  had  been  fortunate,  she 
would  be  laden  with  spices  and  perfumes,  fine  silks  and  linen, 
from  countries  beyond  the  sunrise  where  no  one  that  Nicholas 
knew  had  ever  been.  From  India  and  Persia,  Arabia  and  Tur- 
key, caravans  of  laden  camels  were  even  then  bringing  her 
cargo  across  the  desert.  They  would  be  unloaded  in  such 
great  market-places  as  Moussoul,  Damascus,  Bagdad  and 
Cairo,  the  Babylon  of  those  days.  Alexandria  and  Constanti- 
nople, Tyre  and  Joppa,  were  seaport  market-cities,  and  here 
the  X'^enetian  and  Genoese  galleys,  or  French  ships  of  Mar- 
seilles and  Bordeaux,  or  the  half-Saracen,  half-Norman  traders 
of  Messina  came  for  their  goods. 

The  Rose-in-J une  would  touch  at  Antwerp  and  unload  wool 
for  Flemish  weavers  to  make  into  fine  cloth ;  she  would  cruise 
around  the  coast,  put  in  at  Bordeaux,  and  sell  the  rest  of  her 
wool,  and  the  grain  of  which  England  also  had  a  plenty.  She 
might  go  on  to  Cadiz,  or  even  through  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar 
to  Marseilles  and  Messina.  The  more  costly  the  stuff  which 
she  could  pack  into  the  hold  for  the  homeward  voyage,  the 
greater  the  profit  for  all  concerned. 

Since  wool  takes  up  far  more  room  in  proportion  to  its  value 
than  silk,  wine  or  spices,  money  as  well  as  merchandise  must 
be  put  into  the  venture,  and  the  more  money,  the  more  profit. 
Others  joined  in  the  venture  with  Master  Gay.  Edrupt  the 
wool-merchant  furnished  a  part  of  the  cargo  on  his  own  ac- 
count; wool-merchants  traveled  through  the  country  as  agents 
for  Master  Gay.    The  men  who  served  in  the  warehouse  put 


"'have  you  been  here  all  this  time?'" 


88  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

in  their  share;  even  the  porters  and  apprentices  sent  some- 
thing, if  no  more  than  a  shilling.  There  was  some  profit  also 
in  the  passenger  trade,  especially  in  time  of  pilgrimage  when 
it  was  hard  to  get  ships  enough  for  all  who  wished  to  go.  The 
night  before  the  sailing,  Nicholas  escaped  from  the  happy 
hubbub  and  went  slowly  down  to  the  wharves.  It  was  not  a 
very  long  walk,  but  it  tired  him,  and  he  felt  rather  sad  as  he 
looked  at  the  grim  gray  Tower  looming  above  the  river,  and 
wondered  if  the  owner  of  the  packet  sealed  with  the  red  seal 
would  ever  come  back. 

As  he  passed  the  little  church  at  the  foot  of  Tower  Hill  a 
light  step  came  up  behind  him,  and  two  hands  were  placed  on 
his  shoulders. 

"My  faith  I"  said  the  young  man.  "Have  you  been  here  all 
this  time"?" 

He  was  thinner  and  paler,  but  the  laughter  still  sparkled  in 
his  dark  eyes,  and  he  was  dressed  in  daintily  embroidered 
doublet,  fine  hose,  and  cloak  of  the  newest  fashion,  a  gold 
chain  about  his  neck  and  a  harp  slung  from  his  shoulder.  A 
group  of  well-dressed  servants  stood  near  the  church. 

"I'm  well  now,"  said  Nicholas  rather  shyly  but  happily. 
"I'm  glad  you  have  come  back." 

"I  was  at  my  wit's  end  when  I  thought  of  you,  lad,"  went 
on  the  other,  "for  I  remembered  too  late  that  neither  of  us 
knew  the  other's  name,  and  if  I  had  told  mine  or  asked  yours 
in  the  hearing  of  a  certain  rascal  it  might  have  been  a  sorry 
time  for  us  both.  They  made  a  little  mistake,  you  see, — they 
took  me  for  a  traitor." 

"How  could  they'?"  said  Nicholas,  surprised  and  indignant. 

"Oh,  black  is  white  to  a  scared  man's  eyes,"  said  his  com- 


THE  VENTURE  OF  NICHOLAS  GAY  89 

panion  light-heartedly.  "How  have  your  father's  ships  pros- 
pered?" 

"There's  one  of  them," — Nicholas  pointed,  proudly,  across 
the  little  space  of  water,  to  the  Rose-in-June  tugging  at  her 
anchor. 

"She's  a  fine  ship,"  the  young  man  said  consideringly,  and 
then,  as  he  saw  the  parcel  Nicholas  was  taking  from  his  bosom, 
"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  that  has  never  been  opened'?  What 
sort  of  folk  are  you  ?" 

"I  never  told,"  said  Nicholas,  somewhat  bewildered.  "You 
said  I  was  not  to  speak  of  it." 

"And  there  was  no  name  on  it,  for  a  certain  reason."  The 
young  man  balanced  the  parcel  in  his  hand  and  whistled  softly. 
"You  see,  I  was  expecting  to  meet  hereabouts  a  certain  pilgrim 
who  was  to  take  the  parcel  to  Bordeaux, — and  beyond.  I  was 
— interfered  with,  as  you  know,  and  now  it  must  go  by  a  safe 
hand  to  one  who 'will  deliver  it  to  this  same  pilgrim.  I  should 
say  that  your  father  must  know  how  to  choose  his  captains." 

"My  father  is  Master  Gilbert  Gay," — Nicholas  held  his 
head  very  straight — "and  that  is  Master  Garland,  the  captain 
of  the  Rose-in-June,  coming  ashore  now." 

"Oh,  I  know  him.  I  have  had  dealings  with  him  before 
now.  How  would  it  be — since  without  your  good  help  this 
packet  would  almost  certainly  have  been  lost — to  let  the  worth 
of  it  be  your  venture  in  the  cargo?" 

"My  venture?"  Nicholas  stammered,  the  color  rising  in  his 
cheeks.     "My  venture?" 

"It  is  not  worth  much  in  money,"  the  troubadour  said  with 
a  queer  little  laugh,  "but  it  is  something.  Master  Garland,  I 
see  you  have  not  forgotten  me, — Ranulph,  called  le  Provencal. 


90  IN  THE  DAYS  OF   THE  GUILD 

Here  is  a  packet  to  be  delivered  to  Tomaso  the  physician  of 
Padua,  whom  you  know.  The  money  within  is  this  young 
man's  share  in  your  cargo,  and  Tomaso  will  pay  you  for  your 
trouble." 

Master  Garland  grinned  broadly  in  his  big  beard.  "Surely, 
sure-ly,"  he  chuckled,  and  pocketed  the  parcel  as  if  it  had  been 
an  apple,  but  Nicholas  noted  that  he  kept  his  hand  on  his 
{xjuch  as  he  went  on  to  the  wharf. 

"And  now,"  Ranulph  said,  as  there  was  a  stir  in  the  crowd 
by  the  church  door, — evidently  some  one  was  coming  out.  "I 
must  leave  you,  my  lad.  Some  day  we  shall  meet  again." 
Then  he  went  hastily  away  to  join  a  brilliant  company  of 
courtiers  in  traveling  attire.  Things  were  evidently  going 
well  with  Ranulph. 

Nicholas  thought  a  great  deal  about  that  packet  in  the  days 
that  followed.  He  took  to  experimenting  with  various  things 
to  see  what  could  account  for  the  weight.  Lead  was  heavy, 
but  no  one  would  send  a  lump  of  lead  of  that  size  over  seas. 
The  same  could  be  said  of  iron.  He  bethought  him  finally  of 
a  goldsmith's  nephew  with  whom  he  had  acquaintance.  Guy 
Bouverel  was  older,  but  the  two  boys  knew  each  other  well. 

"Guy,"  he  said  one  day,  "what's  the  heaviest  metal  you 
ever  handled'?" 

"Gold,"  said  Guy  promptly. 

"A  bag  that  was  too  heavy  to  have  silver  in  it  would  have 
gold*?" 

"I  should  think  so.    Have  you  found  treasure*?" 

"No,"  said  Nicholas,  "I  was  wondering." 

The  Rose-in- June  came  back  before  she  was  due.  Master 
Garland  came  up  to  the  house  with  Gilbert  Gay,  one  rainy 


THE  VENTURE  OF  NICHOLAS  GAY  91 

evening  when  Nicholas  and  Genevieve  were  playing  nine- 
men's-morris  in  a  corner  and  their  mother  was  embroidering 
a  girdle  by  the  light  of  a  bracket  lamp.  Nicholas  had  been 
taught  not  to  interrupt,  and  he  did  not,  but  he  was  glad  when 
his  mother  said  gently,  but  with  shining  eyes,  "Nicholas,  come 
here." 

It  was  a  queer  story  that  Captain  Garland  had  to  tell,  and 
nobody  could  make  out  exactly  what  it  meant.  Two  or  three 
years  before  he  had  met  Ranulph,  who  was  then  a  troubadour 
in  the  service  of  Prince  Henry  of  Anjou,  and  he  had  taken  a 
casket  of  gold  pieces  to  Tomaso  the  physician,  who  was  then 
in  Genoa. 

"They  do  say,"  said  Captain  Garland,  pulling  at  his  russet 
beard,  "that  the  old  doctor  can  do  anything  short  o'  raising  the 
dead.  They  fair  worshiped  him  there,  I  know.  But  it's  my 
notion  that  that  box  o'  gold  pieces  wasn't  payment  for  physic." 

"Probably  not,"  said  the  merchant  smiling.  "Secret  mes- 
sengers are  more  likely  to  deliver  their  messages  if  no  one 
knows  they  have  any.    But  what  happened  this  time?" 

"Why,"  said  the  sea  captain,  "I  found  the  old  doctor  in 
his  garden,  with  a  great  cat  o'  Malta  stalking  along  beside 
him,  and  I  gave  him  the  packet.  He  opened  it  and  read  the 
letter,  and  then  he  untied  a  little  leather  purse  and  spilled  out 
half  a  dozen  gold  pieces  and  some  jewels  that  fair  made  me 
blink — not  many,  but  beauties — rubies  and  emeralds  and 
pearls.  He  beckoned  toward  the  house  and  a  man  in  pilgrim's 
garb  came  out  and  valued  the  jewels.  Then  he  sent  me  back 
to  the  Rose-ln-Jnne  with  the  worth  o'  the  jewels  in  coined  gold 
and  this  ring  here.     'Tell  the  boy,'  says  he,  'that  he  saved  the 


92  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

King's  jewels,  and  that  lie  has  a  better  jewel  than  all  of  them, 
the  jewel  of  honor.'  " 

"But,  father,"  said  Nicholas,  rather  puzzled,  "what  else 
could  I  do?" 

None  of  them  could  make  anything  of  the  mystery,  but  as 
Tomaso  of  Padua  talked  with  Eloy  the  goldsmith  that  same 
evening  they  agreed  that  the  price  they  paid  was  cheap.  In 
the  game  the  Pope's  party  was  playing  against  that  of  the  Em- 
peror for  the  mastery  of  Europe,  it  had  been  deemed  advisable 
to  find  out  whether  Henry  Plantagenet  would  rule  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire  if  he  could.  He  had  refused  the  offer  of  the 
throne  of  the  Ccesars,  and  it  was  of  the  utmost  importance  that 
no  one  should  know  that  the  offer  had  been  made.  Hence  the 
delivery  of  the  letter  to  the  jeweler. 


LONDON  BELLS 

London  town  is  fair  and  great, 

Many  a  tower   and  steeplCj 
Bells  ring  early  and  ring  late, 
Mocking  all  the  people. 
Some  they  say,  "Good  provender," 
Some  they  sing,  "Sweet  lavender," 
Some  they  call,  "The  taverner," 
Some  they  cry,  "The  fripperer 

Is  lord  of  London  Town!" 


London  town  is  great  and  wide. 
Many  a  stately  dwelling. 
And  her  folk  that  there  abide 
Are  beyond  all  telling. 
But  by  land  or  water-gate, 
Aldgate,  Newgate,  Bishopsgate, 
Ludgate,  Moorgate,  Cripplegate, 
Bells  ring  early  and  ring  late. 

The  bells  of  London  Town. 


VIII 
BARBARA,  THE  LITTLE  GOOSE-GIRL 

HOW    BARBARA    SOLD    GEESE    IN    THE    CHEPE    AND    WHAT    FOR- 
TUNE SHE  FOUND  THERE 

ANY  one  who  had  happened  to  be  traveling  along  the 
Islington  Road  between  two  and  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  when  London  was  a  walled  city,  would  have 
seen  how  London  was  to  be  fed  that  day.  But  very 
few  were  on  the  road  at  that  hour  except  the  people  whose 
business  it  was  to  feed  London,  and  to  them  it  was  an  old 
story.  There  were  men  with  cattle  and  men  with  sheep  and 
men  with  pigs;  there  were  men  with  little,  sober,  gray  donkeys, 
not  much  bigger  than  a  large  dog,  trotting  all  so  briskly  along 
with  the  deep  baskets  known  as  paniers  hung  on  each  side 
their  backs;  men  with  paniers  or  huge  sacks  on  their  own  backs, 
partly  resting  on  the  shoulders  and  partly  held  by  a  leather 
strap  around  the  forehead;  men  with  flat,  shallow  baskets  on 
their  heads,  piled  three  and  four  deep  and  filled  with  vege- 
tables. That  was  the  way  in  which  all  the  butter,  fruit,  poul- 
try, eggs,  meat,  and  milk  for  Londoners  to  eat  came  into 
medieval  London.  Before  London  Wall  was  fairly  finished 
there  were  laws  against  any  one  within  the  city  keeping  cattle 
or  pigs  on  the  premises.  Early  every  morning  the  market  folk 
started  from  the  villages  round  about, — there  were  women  as 

95 


96  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

well  as  men  in  the  business — and  by  the  time  the  city  gates 
opened  they  were  there. 

It  was  not  as  exciting  to  Barbara  Thwaite  as  it  would  have 
been  if  she  had  not  known  every  inch  of  the  road,  but  it  was 
exciting  enough  on  this  particular  summer  morning,  for  in  all 
her  thirteen  years  she  had  never  been  to  market  alone.  Goody 
Thwaite  had  been  trudging  over  the  road  several  times  a  week 
for  years — seven  miles  to  London  and  seven  miles  home — and 
sometimes  she  had  taken  Barbara  with  her,  but  never  had  she 
sent  the  child  by  herself.  Now  she  was  bedridden  and  unless 
they  were  to  lose  all  their  work  for  the  last  month  or  more, 
Barbara  would  have  to  go  to  market  and  tend  their  stall. 
Several  of  the  neighbors  had  stalls  near  by,  and  they  would 
look  after  the  child,  but  this  was  the  busy  season,  and  they 
could  not  undertake  to  carry  any  produce  but  their  own.  A 
neighbor,  too  old  to  do  out-of-door  work,  would  tend  the 
mother,  and  with  much  misgiving  and  many  cautions,  consent 
was  given,  and  Barbara  set  bravely  forth  alone. 

She  had  her  hands  full  in  more  senses  than  one.  Besides 
the  basket  she  carried  on  her  head,  full  of  cress  from  the  brook, 
sallet  herbs  and  under  these  some  early  cherries,  she  had  a 
basket  of  eggs  on  her  arm,  and  she  was  driving  three  geese. 
Barbara's  geese  were  trained  to  walk  in  the  most  orderly  single 
file  at  home,  but  she  had  her  doubts  as  to  their  behavior  in  a 
strange  place. 

The  Islington  Road,  however,  was  not  the  broad  and  dusty 
highway  that  it  is  to-day,  and  at  first  it  was  not  very  crowded. 
Now  and  again,  from  one  of  the  little  wooded  lanes  that  led 
up  to  farmsteads,  a  marketman  would  turn  into  the  highway 
with  his  load,  and  more  and  more  of  them  appeared  as  they 


'•BARBARA    KNEW    EXACTLY    WHERE    TO    GQ-'-Page  97 


98  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

her  loads,  dropped  on  the  bench  and  scattered  a  little  grain  for 
her  geese.    They  had  really  behaved  very  well. 

She  was  not  very  much  to  look  at,  this  little  lass  Barbara. 
Her  grandfather  had  come  from  the  North  Country,  and  she 
had  black  hair  and  eyes  like  a  gypsy.  She  was  rather  silent 
as  a  rule,  though  she  could  sing  like  a  blackbird  when  no  one 
was  about.  People  were  likely  to  forget  about  Barbara  until 
they  wanted  something  done ;  then  they  remembered  her. 

She  penned  in  the  geese  with  a  small  hurdle  of  wicker  so 
that  they  should  not  get  away;  she  set  out  the  cherries  and 
cress  on  one  side  and  the  eggs  on  the  other;  then  she  put  the 
eggs  in  a  bed  of  cress  to  set  off  their  whiteness;  then  she  waited. 
An  apprentice  boy  came  by  and  asked  the  price  of  the  cherries, 
whistled  and  went  on;  a  sharp-faced  woman  stopped  and 
looked  over  what  she  had,  and  went  on.  They  were  all  in  a 
hurry;  they  were  all  going  on  some  errand  of  their  own.  The 
next  person  who  came  by  was  an  old  woman  with  a  fresh 
bright  face,  white  cap  and  neat  homespun  gown.  She  too 
asked  the  price  of  the  cherries  and  shook  her  head  when  she 
heard  it.     "How  good  that  cress  looks!"  she  said  smiling. 

Barbara  held  out  a  bunch  of  the  cress. 

"I  can't  give  away  the  cherries,"  she  said,  "they  are  not 
mine,  but  you're  welcome  to  this." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  little  maid,"  the  old  woman  said,  "my 
grandson's  o'er  fond  of  it.  Never  was  such  a  chap  for  sallets 
and  the  like." 

A  few  minutes  later  a  stout,  rather  fussy  man  stopped  and 
bought  the  whole  basket  of  eggs.  As  he  paid  for  them  and 
signed  to  the  boy  who  followed  to  take  them,  Michael  t.h« 
poultryman  in  the  next  stall  grinned  at  Barbara. 


BARBARA,  THE  LITTLE  GOOSE-GIRL         99 

"Ye  don't  know  who  that  was,  do  you?"  he  said.  "That 
was  old  Gamelyn  Bouverel  the  goldsmith.  You'll  be  sorry 
if  any  of  those  eggs  be  addled,  my  maiden." 

"They're  not,"  said  Barbara.  "I  know  where  all  our  hens' 
nests  are,  and  Gaffer  Edmunds'  too.  We  sell  for  him  since 
he  had  the  palsy." 

Then  a  tall  man  in  a  sort  of  uniform  stopped,  eyed  the  staff, 
and  without  asking  leave  took  one  of  the  geese  from  the  pen 
and  strode  off  with  it  hissing  and  squawking  under  his  arm. 
But  Michael  shook  his  head  soberly  as  Barbara  sprang  up  with 
a  startled  face. 

"That  was  one  o'  the  purveyors  of  my  lord  Fitz-Walter," 
he  said.  "He  may  pay  for  the  bird  and  he  may  not,  but  you 
can't  refuse  him.  There's  one  good  thing — London  folk  don't 
have  to  feed  the  King's  soldiers  nor  his  household.  Old  King 
Henry, — rest  his  soul  I — settled  that  in  the  Charter  he  gave 
the  City,  and  this  one  has  kept  to  it.  My  grand-dad  used  to 
tell  how  any  time  you  might  have  a  great  roaring  archer  or 
man-at-arms,  or  more  likely  two  or  three  or  a  dozen,  quartered 
in  your  house,  willy  nilly,  for  nobody  knew  how  long.  There 
goes  the  bell  for  Prime — that  ends  the  privilege." 

Then  Barbara  remembered  that  the  stewards  of  great  houses 
were  allowed  to  visit  the  market  and  choose  what  they  wished 
until  Prime  (about  six  o'clock)  after  which  the  market  was 
open  to  common  folk.  A  merchant's  wife  bought  another  goose 
and  some  cherries,  and  the  remaining  goose  was  taken  off  her 
hands  by  the  good-natured  Michael,  to  make  up  a  load  of  his 
own  for  a  tavern-keeper.  The  rest  of  the  cherries  were  sold  to 
a  young  man  who  was  very  particular  about  the  way  in  which 
they  were  arranged  in  the  basket,  and  Barbara  guessed  that 


loo  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

he  was  going  to  take  them  as  a  present  to  some  one.  The 
cress  had  gone  a  handful  at  a  time  with  the  other  things,  and 
she  had  some  of  it  for  her  own  dinner,  with  bread  from  the 
bakeshop  and  some  cold  meat  which  Goody  Collins,  her  neigh- 
bor on  the  other  side,  had  sent  for.  She  started  for  home  in 
good  time,  and  brought  her  little  store  of  money  to  her  mother 
before  any  one  had  even  begun  to  worry  over  her  absence. 

The  next  market-day  Barbara  set  forth  with  a  light  heart, 
but  when  she  reached  her  stall  she  found  it  occupied.  A 
rough  lout  had  set  up  shop  there,  with  dressed  poultry  for 
sale.  A-plenty  had  been  said  about  it  before  Barbara  arrived, 
both  by  Michael  and  the  rough-tongued,  kind-hearted  market- 
women.  But  Michael  was  old  and  fat,  and  no  match  for  the 
invader.  Barbara  stood  in  dismay,  a  great  basket  of  red  roses 
on  her  head,  her  egg-basket  on  the  ground,  and  the  cherries 
from  their  finest  tree  in  a  panier  hung  from  her  shoulder.  The 
merchant's  wife  had  asked  her  if  she  could  not  bring  some 
roses  for  rose-water  and  conserve,  and  if  she  had  to  hawk 
them  about  in  the  sun  they  would  be  fit  for  nothing.  The 
Poultry  was  crowded,  and  unless  she  could  have  her  little  foot- 
hold here  she  would  be  obliged  to  go  about  the  streets  peddling, 
which  she  knew  her  mother  would  not  like  at  all. 

"What's  the  trouble  here*?"  asked  a  decided  voice  behind 
her.  She  turned  to  look  up  into  the  cool  gray  eyes  of  a  master- 
ful young  fellow  with  a  little  old  woman  tucked  under  his  arm. 
He  was  brown  and  lithe  and  had  an  air  of  outdoor  freshness, 
and  suddenly  she  recognized  the  old  woman.  It  was  that  first 
customer,  and  this  must  be  the  grandson  of  whom  she  had 
spoken  so  fondly. 

"This  man  says  he  has  this  place  and  means  to  keep  it," 


BARBARA,  THE  LITTLE  .GQOSE-GIPX,       loi 

Barbara  explained  in  a  troubled  but  firm  little  voice.  "He 
says  that  only  the  poultry  dealers  have  any  right  here, — but 
it's  Mother's  corner  and  she  has  had  it  a  long  time." 

"Aye,  that  she  has,"  chorused  two  or  three  voices.  "And  if 
there  was  a  man  belonging  to  them  you'd  see  yon  scamp  go 
packing,  like  a  cat  out  o'  the  dairy.  'Tis  a  downright  shame, 
so  'tis." 

"Maybe  a  man  that  don't  belong  to  them  will  do  as  well," 
said  the  youth  coolly.  "Back  here,  gammer,  out  of  the  way — 
and  you  go  stand  by  her,  little  maid.  Now  then,  you  lummox, 
are  you  going  to  pick  up  your  goods  and  go,  or  do  I  have  to 
throw  them  after  you*?" 

The  surly  fellow  eyed  the  new-comer's  broad  shoulders  and 
hard-muscled  arms  for  a  moment,  picked  up  his  poultry  and 
began  to  move,  but  as  he  loaded  his  donkeys  he  said  something 
under  his  breath  which  Barbara  did  not  hear.  An  instant  later 
she  beheld  him  lying  on  his  back  in  a  none-too-clean  gutter 
with  her  defender  standing  over  him.  He  lost  no  time  in  mak- 
ing his  way  out  of  the  street,  followed  by  the  laughter  of  the 
Poultry.  Even  the  ducks,  geese  and  chickens  joined  in  the 
cackle  of  merriment. 

"Sit  thee  down  and  rest,"  said  the  youth  to  Barbara  kindly. 
"We  must  be  getting  on,  grandmother.  If  he  makes  any  more 
trouble,  send  some  one,  or  come  50urself,  to  our  lodging — ask 
for  Robert  Edrupt  at  the  house  of  Master  Hardel  the  wool- 
merchant." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Barbara  shyly.  "There's  plenty  cress 
in  the  brook,  and  I'll  bring  some  next  market-day — and  straw- 
berries too,  but  not  for  pay." 

"Kindness  breeds  kindness,   little   maid,"   added   the  old 


102  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

woniiin,  and  Barbara  reflected  that  it  sometimes  breeds  good 
fortune  also. 

This  was  not  the  end  of  Barbara's  acquaintance  with  Dame 
Lysbeth  and  her  grandson.  The  old  dame  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  the  self-possessed,  quaintly  dignified  little  maid,  and  the 
Thwaite  garden  proved  to  have  in  it  many  fruits  and  herbs 
which  she  needed  in  her  housekeeping.  It  was  a  very  old- 
fashioned  garden  planted  a  long  time  ago  by  a  tavern-keeper 
from  the  south  of  France,  and  he  had  brought  some  pears  and 
plums  from  his  old  home  in  the  south  and  grafted  and  planted 
and  tended  them  very  carefully.  There  was  one  tree  which 
had  two  kinds  of  pears  on  it,  one  for  the  north  side  and  one 
for  the  south. 

Barbara's  mother  did  not  get  any  better.  One  day  Robert 
Edrupt  stopped  in  the  Poultry  to  buy  a  goose  for  dinner,  to 
celebrate  his  home-coming  from  a  long  wool-buying  journey, 
and  the  stall  was  empty. 

"Aye,"  said  Goody  Collins,  wiping  her  eyes,  "she  was  a 
good-hearted  woman,  was  Alison  Thwaite,  and  there's  many 
who  will  miss  her.    She  died  two  days  ago,  rest  her  soul." 

Edrupt  bought  his  goose  of  Michael  and  went  on  his  way 
looking  sober.  A  plan  had  occurred  to  him,  and  when  he 
talked  it  over  with  Dame  Lysbeth  she  heartily  agreed.  A  day 
or  two  later  Barbara,  standing  in  the  door  of  the  little  lonely 
cottage  and  wondering  what  she  should  do  now,  saw  the  two 
of  them  coming  down  the  lane.  Dame  Lysbeth  opened  the 
gate  and  came  in,  but  Robert,  after  a  bow  and  a  pleasant  word 
or  two  to  Barbara,  went  on  to  the  next  farm  on  an  errand. 

Barbara  could  hardly  believe  her  ears  when  she  heard  what 
the  old  dame  had  to  say.  The  young  wool-merchant  had 
brought  his  grandmother  to  London  to  keep  house  for  him 


BARBARA,  THE  LITTLE  GOOSE-GIRL        103 

because  he  did  not  like  to  leave  her  alone  in  her  cottage  in 
the  west  country,  nor  could  he  live  there  so  far  from  the 
great  markets.  But  neither  of  them  liked  the  city,  and  for 
the  next  few  years  he  would  have  to  be  away  more  than  ever. 
He  and  Master  Gay  had  been  considering  a  scheme  for  import- 
ing foreign  sheep  to  see  if  they  would  improve  the  quality 
of  English  wool.  Before  they  did  this  Edrupt  would  have 
to  go  to  Spain,  to  Aquitaine,  to  Lombardy  and  perhaps  even 
further.  While  he  was  abroad  he  might  well  study  the  ways 
of  the  weavers  as  well  as  the  sheep  that  grew  the  fleece.  He 
wanted  to  buy  a  farm  he  had  seen,  with  a  tidy  house  on  it, 
where  Dame  Lysbeth  could  have  the  sort  of  home  she  was 
used  to,  but  with  maids  to  do  the  heavy  farm  work.  If 
Barbara  would  come  and  live  there,  and  help  see  to  things,  she 
would  be  very  welcome  indeed  as  long  as  she  chose  to  stay. 
Dame  Lysbeth  had  never  had  a  daughter,  and  she  had 
often  thought  in  the  last  few  months  that  if  she  had  one,  she 
would  like  to  have  just  such  a  girl  as  Barbara.  The  young 
girl,  on  her  side,  already  loved  her  old  friend  better  than 
she  had  ever  loved  anybody  but  her  own  mother,  and  so  it 
came  about  that  when  the  spring  turned  the  apple  orchards 
white  about  King's  Barton,  three  very  happy  people  went 
from  London  to  the  farm  near  that  village,  known  as  the  Long 
Lea.  It  had  land  about  it  which  was  not  good  enough  for 
com,  but  would  do  very  well  for  geese  and  for  sheep,  and 
there  was  room  for  a  large  garden,  as  well  as  the  orchard. 
Even  in  those  early  days,  people  who  bought  an  English 
farm  usually  inherited  some  of  the  work  of  the  previous 
owner,  and  as  Robert  said,  they  would  try  to  farm  Long  Lea 
in  such  a  way  as  to  leave  it  richer  than  they  found  it,  and 
still  lose  no  profit. 


104  I^'    I'^n:  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

"Don't  forget  to  take  cuttings  from  this  garden,  lass," 
he  said  to  Barbara  in  his  blunt,  kindly  way,  as  they  stood 
there  together  for  the  last  time.  "There  are  things  here  which 
we  can  make  tlirive  in  the  years  to  come." 

"I  have,"  said  Barbara  staidly.  She  motioned  to  a  care- 
fully packed  and  tied  parcel  in  a  sack.  "And  there's  a  whole 
basket  of  eggs  from  all  our  fowls." 

Edrupt  laughed.     He  liked  her  business-like  little  way. 

"Did  you  take  any  red-rose  cuttings'?"  he  inquired.  "There's 
a  still-room  where  the  old  castle  used  to  be,  and  they'd  use 
some,  I  believe." 

"It's  the  Provence  rose,"  Barbara  said.  "I  took  the  whole 
bush  up  and  set  it  in  a  wooden  bucket.  Michael  won't  want 
that." 

Michael  the  poultryman  was  adding  the  little  garden  and 
the  stall  in  the  Poultry  to  his  own  business.  He  would  cart 
away  the  little  tumbledown  cottage  and  plant  kale  there. 

"The  Provence  rose,  is  it'?"  queried  Edrupt  thoughtfully. 
"We'll  have  it  beside  our  door,  Barbara,  and  that  will  make 
you  feel  more  at  home." 

Both  Barbara  and  the  roses  throve  by  transplanting.  When 
Edrupt  came  home  from  his  long  foreign  journey,  more  than 
a  year  later,  it  was  rose-time,  and  Barbara,  with  a  basket 
of  roses  on  her  arm,  was  marshaling  a  flock  of  most  important 
mother-ducks  with  their  ducklings  into  the  poultry-yard.  The 
house  with  its  tiled  and  thatched  roofs  sat  in  the  middle  of  its 
flocks  and  fruits  and  seemed  to  welcome  all  who  came,  and 
Dame  Lysbeth,  beaming  from  the  window,  looked  so  well 
content  that  it  did  him  good  to  see  her. 


HARPER'S  SONG 

O  listen,  good  people  in  fair  guildhall — ■ 

(Saxon  gate,  Norman  tower  on  the  Roman  wall) 

A   King  in   forest  green   and  an  Abbot  in  gray 

Rode   west  together   on   the   Pilgrims'   Way, 

And   the  Abbot   thought  the   King  was   a  crossbowman, 

"And   the   King   thought  the  Abbot  was   a   sacristan. 

(On  White  Horse  Hill  the  bright  sun  shone, 
And  blithe  sang  the  wind  by  the  Blowing  Stone,— 
O,   the   bridle-bells    ring   merrily-sweet 
To  the  clickety-clack  of  the  hackney's  feet!) 

Said  the  King  in  green  to  the  Abbot  in  gray, 
"Shrewd-built  is  yon  Abbey  as  I  hear  say. 
With  Purbeck  marble  and  Portland  stone, 
Stately  and  fair  as  a  Caesar's  throne." 
"Not  so,"  quo'  the  Abbot,  and  shook  his  wise  head, — 
"Well-founded   our  cloisters,  when   all   is  said, 
But  the  stones  be  rough  as  the  mortar  is  thick, 
And  piers  of  rubble  are  faced  with  brick." 

(The  Saxon  crypt  and  the  Norman  wall 
Keep  faith  together  though  Kingdoms  fall, — 
O,  the  mellow  chime  that  the  great  bells  ring 
Is  wooing  the  folk  to  the  one  true  King!) 

Said   the  Abbot  in   gray   to   the  King  in   green, 
"Winchester  Castle  is  fair  to  be  seen, 
And   London   Tower  by   the  changeful   tide 
Is  sure  as  strong  as  the  seas  are  wide." 


But  tlic   King  shook  his   head  and   spurred  on  his  way, — 

"London  is  loyal  as  I  dare  say, 

But  the  Border  is  fighting  us  tooth  and  horn, 

And  the  Lion  must  still  hunt  the  Unicorn." 

(The  trumpet  blared  from  the  fortress  tower, 
The  stern  alarum  clanged  the  hour, — 
O,  the  wild  Welsh  Marches  their  war-song  sing 
To  the  tune  that  the  swords  on  the  morions  ring!) 

The  King  and  the  Abbot  came  riding  down 

To  the  market-square  of  Chippenham  town, 

Where  wool-packs,  wheatears,  cheese-wych,  flax, 

Malmsey  and  bacon  pay  their  tax. 

Quo'  the  King  to  the  Abbot,  "The  Crown  must  live 

By  what  all  England  hath  to  give." 

"Faith,"   quoth    the   Abbot,    "good   sign    is  here 

Tithes  are  a-gathering  for  our  clerkes'  cheer." 

(The  song  of  the  Mint  is  the  song  I  sing, 
The  crown  that  the  beggar  may  share  with  the  King, 
And   the  clink  of   the  coin   rhymes  marvelous  well 
To  castle,  or  chapel,  or  market-bell!) 


RICHARD'S  SILVER  PENNY 


HOW    RICHARD    SOLD   A    WEB    OF    RUSSET   AND    MADE 
THE    BEST   OF  A    BAD   BARGAIN 


RICHARD  was  going  to  market.     He  was  rather  a 
small  boy  to  be  going  on  that  errand,  especially  as  he 
carried  on  his  shoulder  a  bundle  nearly  as  big  as  he 
was.    But  his  mother,  with  whom  he  lived  in  a  little, 
whitewashed  timber-and-plaster  hut  at  the  edge  of  the  com- 
mon, was  too  ill  to  go,  and  the  Cloth  Fair  was  not  likely 
to  wait  until  she  was  well  again. 

The  boy  could  hardly  remember  his  father.  Sebastian 
Garland  was  a  sailor,  and  had  gone  away  so  long  ago  that 
there  was  little  hope  that  he  would  ever  come  back.  Ever 
since  Richard  could  remember  they  had  lived  as  they  did 
now,  mainly  by  his  mother's  weaving.  They  had  a  few  sheep 
which  were  pastured  on  the  common,  and  one  of  the  neigh- 

107 


io8  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUIED 

bors  helped  them  with  the  washing  and  shearing.  "J'lie  wool 
had  to  be  combed  and  sorted  and  washed  in  long  and  tedious 
ways  before  it  was  ready  to  spin,  and  before  it  was  woven 
it  was  dyed  in  colors  that  Dame  Garland  made  from  plants 
she  found  in  the  woods  and  fields.  She  had  been  a  Highland 
Scotch  girl,  and  could  weave  tyrtaine,  as  the  people  in  the 
towns  called  the  plaids.  None  of  the  English  people  knew 
anything  about  the  different  tartans  that  belonged  to  the 
Scottish  clans,  but  a  woman  who  could  weave  those  could 
make  woolen  cloth  of  a  very  pretty  variety  of  patterns.  She 
worked  as  a  dyer,  too,  when  she  could  find  any  one  who 
would  pay  lor  the  work,  and  sometimes  she  did  weaving  for 
a  farm-wife  who  had  more  than  her  maids  could  do. 

Richard  knew  every  step  of  the  work,  from  sheep-fieece 
to  loom,  and  wherever  a  boy  could  help,  he  had  been  useful. 
He  had  gone  to  get  elder  bark,  which,  with  iron  filings,  would 
dye  black;  he  had  seen  oak  bark  used  to  dye  yellow,  and  he 
knew  that  madder  root  was  used  for  red,  and  woad  for  blue. 
His  mother  could  not  afford  to  buy  the  turmeric,  indigo, 
kermes,  and  other  dyestuffs  brought  from  far  countries  or 
grown  in  gardens.  She  had  to  depend  on  whatever  could  be 
got  for  nothing.  The  bright  rich  colors  which  dyers  used 
in  dyeing  wool  for  the  London  market  were  not  for  her.  Yel- 
low, brown,  some  kinds  of  green,  black,  gray  and  dull  red 
she  could  make  of  common  plants,  mosses  and  the  bark  of  trees. 
The  more  costly  dyestuffs  were  made  from  plants  which 
did  not  grow  wild  in  England,  or  from  minerals. 

Richard  was  thinking  about  all  this  as  he  trudged  along 
the  lane,  and  thinking  also  that  it  would  be  much  easier 
for  them  to  get  a  living  if  it  were  not  for  the  rules  of  the 


RICHARD'S  SILVER  l^ENNY  109 

Weavers'  Guild.  This  association  was  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant of  the  English  guilds  of  the  tM^elfth  century,  and 
had  a  charter,  or  protecting  permit,  from  the  King,  which 
gave  them  special  rights  and  privileges.  He  had  also  estab- 
lished the  Cloth  Fair  at  Smithfield  in  London,  the  greatest 
of  all  the  cloth-markets  that  were  so  called.  If  any  man 
did  the  guild  "any  unright  or  dis-ease"  there  was  a  fine  of 
ten  pounds,  which  would  mean  then  more  than  fifty  dollars 
would  to-da}^  Later  he  protected  the  weavers  still  further 
by  ordaining  that  the  Portgrave  should  burn  any  cloth  which 
had  Spanish  wool  mixed  with  the  English,  and  the  weavers 
themselves  allowed  no  work  by  candle-light.  This  helped  to 
keep  up  the  standard  of  the  weaving,  and  to  prevent  dis- 
honest dealers  from  lowering  the  price  by  selling  inferior 
cloth.  As  early  as  1 100  Thomas  Cole,  the  rich  clothworker 
of  Reading,  whose  wains  crowded  the  highway  to  London, 
had  secured  a  charter  from  Henry  I.,  this  King's  grandfather, 
and  the  measure  of  the  King's  own  arm  had  been  taken  for 
the  standard  ell-measure  throughout  the  kingdom. 

Richard  knew  all  this,  because,  having  no  one  else  to  talk 
to,  his  mother  had  talked  much  with  him;  and  the  laws  of 
Scotland  and  England  differed  in  so  many  ways  that  she  had 
had  to  find  out  exactly  what  she  might  and  might  not  do. 
In  some  of  the  towns  the  weavers'  guilds  had  made  a  rule 
that  no  one  within  ten  miles  who  did  not  belong  to  the  guild 
or  did  not  own  sheep  should  make  dyed  cloth.  This  was 
profitable  to  the  weavers  in  the  association,  but  it  was  rather 
hard  on  those  who  were  outside,  and  not  every  one  was  al- 
lowed to  belong.  The  English  weavers  were  especially  jeal- 
ous of  foreigners,  and  some  of  their  rules  had  been  made  to 


no  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

discourage  Flemish  and  Florentine  workmen  and  traders  from 
getting  a  foothold  in  the  market. 

Richard  had  been  born  in  England,  and  when  he  was  old 
enough  to  earn  a  living,  he  intended  to  repay  his  mother  for 
all  her  hard  and  lonely  work  for  him.  As  an  apprentice  to 
the  craft  he  could  grow  up  in  it  and  belong  to  the  Weavers' 
Guild  himself  some  day,  but  he  thought  that  if  there  were  any 
way  to  manage  it  he  would  rather  be  a  trader.  He  felt  rather 
excited  now  as  he  hurried  to  reach  the  village  before  the  bell 
should  ring  for  the  opening  of  the  market. 

King's  Barton  was  not  a  very  big  town,  but  on  market 
days  it  seemed  very  busy.  There  was  an  irregular  square  in 
the  middle  of  the  town,  with  a  cross  of  stone  in  the  center, 
and  the  ringing  of  this  bell  gave  notice  for  the  opening  and 
closing  of  the  market.  It  was  not  always  the  same  sort  of 
market.  Once  a  week  the  farmers  brought  in  their  cattle 
and  sheep.  On  another  day  poultry  was  sold.  In  the  season, 
there  were  corn  markets  and  grass  markets,  for  the  crops  of 
wheat  and  hay;  and  in  every  English  town,  markets  were 
held  at  certain  times  for  whatever  was  produced  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. Everybody  knew  when  these  days  came,  and  mer- 
chants from  the  larger  cities  came  then  to  buy  or  sell — on 
other  days  they  would  have  found  the  place  half  asleep.  In 
so  small  a  town  there  was  not  trade  enough  to  support  a  shop 
for  the  sale  of  clothing,  jewelry  and  foreign  wares;  but  a 
traveling  merchant  could  do  very  well  on  market  days. 

When  Richard  came  into  the  square  the  bell  had  just 
begun  to  ring,  and  the  booths  were  already  set  up  and  occu- 
pied. His  mother  had  told  him  to  look  for  Master  Elsing, 
a  man  to  whom  she  had  sometimes  sold  her  cloth,  but  he  was 


RICHARD'S  SILVER  PENNY  in 

not  there.  In  his  stall  was  a  new  man.  There  was  some  trade 
between  London  and  the  Hanse,  or  German  cities,  and  some- 
times they  sent  men  into  the  country  to  buy  at  the  fairs  and 
markets  and  keep  an  eye  on  trade.  Master  Elsing  had  been 
one  of  these,  and  he  had  always  given  a  fair  price.  The  new 
man  smiled  at  the  boy  with  his  big  roll  of  cloth,  and  said, 
"What  have  you  there,  my  fine  lad?" 

Richard  told  him.  The  man  looked  rather  doubtful,  "Let 
me  see  it,"  he  said. 

The  cloth  was  a  soft,  thick  rough  web  with  a  long  furry 
nap.  If  it  was  made  into  a  cloak  the  person  who  wore  it 
could  have  the  nap  sheared  off  when  it  was  shabby,  and  wear 
it  again  and  shear  it  again  until  it  was  threadbare.  A  man 
who  did  this  work  was  called  a  shearman  or  sherman.  The 
strange  merchant  pursed  his  lips  and  fingered  the  cloth.  "Com- 
mon stuff,"  he  said,  "I  doubt  me  the  dyes  will  not  be  fast 
color,  and  it  will  have  to  be  finished  at  my  cost.  There  is 
no  profit  for  me  in  it,  but  I  should  like  to  help  you — I  like 
manly  boys.     What  do  you  want  for  it*?" 

Richard  named  the  price  his  mother  had  told  him  to  ask. 
There  was  an  empty  feeling  inside  him,  for  he  knew  that 
unless  they  sold  that  cloth  they  had  only  threepence  to  buy 
anything  whatever  to  eat,  and  it  would  be  a  long  time  to  next 
market  day.  The  merchant  laughed.  "You  will  never  make 
a  trader  if  you  do  not  learn  the  worth  of  things,  my  boy," 
he  said  good-naturedly.  "The  cloth  is  worth  more  than  that. 
I  will  give  you  sixpence  over,  just  by  way  of  a  lesson." 

Richard  hesitated.  He  had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as 
anybody  offering  more  for  a  thing  than  was  asked,  and  he 
looked  incredulously  at  the  handful  of  silver  and  copper  that 


112  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

the  niercliant  held  out.  "You  had  better  take  it  and  go 
home,"  the  man  added.  "Think  liow  sur[)ri.sed  your  mother 
will  be !  You  can  tell  her  that  she  has  a  fine  young  son — 
Conrad  Waibling  said  so." 

Richard  still  hesitated,  and  Waibling  withdrew  the  money. 
"You  may  ask  any  one  in  the  market,"  he  said  impatiently, 
"and  if  you  get  a  better  price  than  mine  I  say  no  more." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Richard  soberly,  "I  will  come  back  if 
I  get  no  other  offer." 

He  took  his  cloth  to  the  oldest  of  the  merchants  and  asked 
him  if  he  would  better  Waibling's  price,  but  the  man  shook 
his  head.  "More  than  it  is  worth,"  he  said.  "Nobody  will 
give  you  that,  my  boy."  And  from  two  others  he  got  the 
same  reply.  He  went  back  to  Waibling  finally,  left  the  cloth 
and  took  his  price. 

He  had  never  seen  a  silver  penny  before.  It  had  a  cross 
on  one  side  and  the  King's  head  on  the  other,  as  the  common 
pennies  did;  it  was  rather  tarnished,  but  he  rubbed  it  on  his 
jacket  to  brighten  it.  He  thought  he  would  like  to  have  it 
bright  and  shining  when  he  showed  it  to  his  mother.  All 
the  time  that  he  was  sitting  on  a  bank  by  the  roadside,  a  little 
way  out  of  the  town,  eating  his  bread  and  cheese,  he  was 
polishing  the  silver  penny.  A  young  man  who  rode  by  just 
then,  with  a  black-eyed  young  woman  behind  him,  reined  in 
his  horse  and  looked  down  with  some  amusement.  "What 
art  doing,  lad?"  he  asked. 

"It's  my  silver  penny,"  said  Richard.  "I  wanted  it  to  be 
fine  and  bonny  to  show  mother." 

"Hal"  said  the  young  man.  "Let's  see."  Richard  held 
up  the  penny.     "Who  gave  you  that,  my  boy"?" 


RICHARD'S  SILVER  PENNY  113 

"Master  Waibling  the  cloth-merchant,"  said  Richard,  and 
he  told  the  story  of  the  bargain. 

The  young  man  looked  grave.  "Barbara,"  he  said  to  the 
girl,  "art  anxious  to  get  home?  Because  I  have  business 
with  this  same  Waibling,  and  I  want  to  find  him  before  he 
leaves  the  town." 

The  girl  smiled  demurely.  "That's  like  thee,  Robert," 
she  said.  "Ever  since  I  married  thee, — and  long  before,  it's 
been  the  same.  I  won't  hinder  thee.  Leave  me  at  Mary 
Lavender's  and  I'll  have  a  look  about  her  garden." 

The  two  rode  off  at  a  brisk  pace,  and  Richard  saw  them 
halt  at  a  gate  not  far  away,  and  while  the  girl  went  in  the 
man  mounted  his  horse  again  and  came  back.  "Jump  thee 
up  behind  me,  young  chap,"  he  ordered,  "and  we'll  see  to  this. 
The  silver  penny  is  not  good.  He  probably  got  it  in  some 
trade  and  passed  it  off  on  the  first  person  who  would  take  it. 
Look  at  this  one." 

Edrupt  held  up  a  silver  penny  from  his  own  purse. 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  Richard  slowly.  "I  thought  all  pen- 
nies were  alike." 

"They're  not — but  until  the  new  law  was  passed  they  were 
well-nigh  anything  you  please.  You  see,  this  penny  he  gave 
you  is  an  old  one.  Before  the  new  law  some  time,  when  the 
King  needed  money  very  badly, — in  Stephen's  time  maybe — 
they  mixed  the  silver  with  lead  to  make  it  go  further.  That's 
why  it  would  not  shine.  And  look  at  this."  He  took  out 
another  coin.  "This  is  true  metal,  but  it  has  been  clipped. 
Some  thief  took  a  bag  full  of  them  probably,  clipped  each 
one  as  much  as  he  dared,  passed  off  the  coins  for  good  money, 
and  melted  down  the  parings  of  silver  to  se41.     Next  time 


114  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

you  take  a  silver  penny  see  that  it  is  pure  bright  silver  and 
quite  round." 

By  this  time  they  were  in  the  market-place.  Edrupt  dis- 
mounted, and  gave  Richard  the  bridle  to  hold;  then  he  went 
up  to  Waibling's  stall,  but  the  merchant  w^is  not  there. 

"He  told  me  to  mind  it  for  him,"  said  the  man  in  the  next 
booth.  "He  went  out  but  now  and  said  he  would  be  back 
in  a  moment." 

But  the  cloth-merchant  did  not  come  back.  The  web  of 
cloth  he  had  bought  from  Richard  was  on  the  counter,  and 
that  was  the  only  important  piece  of  goods  he  had  bought. 
Quite  a  little  crowd  gathered  about  by  the  time  they  had 
waited  awhile.  Richard  wondered  what  it  all  meant.  Pres- 
ently Edrupt  came  back,  laughing. 

"He  has  left  town,"  he  said  to  Richard.  "He  must  have 
seen  me  before  I  met  you.  I  have  had  dealings  with  him 
before,  and  he  knew  what  I  would  do  if  I  caught  him  here. 
Well,  he  has  left  you  your  cloth  and  the  price  of  the  stuff,  less 
one  bad  penny.  Will  you  sell  the  cloth  to  me?  I  am  a 
wool-merchant,  not  a  cloth-merchant,  but  I  can  use  a  cloak 
made  of  good  homespun." 

Richard  looked  up  at  his  new  friend  with  a  face  so  bright 
with  gratitude  and  relief  that  the  young  merchant  laughed 
again.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  penny?"  he  asked 
the  boy,  curiously. 

"I'd  like  to  throw  it  in  the  river,"  said  Richard  in  sudden 
wrath.     "Then  it  would  cheat  no  more  poor  folk." 

"They  say  that  if  you  drop  a  coin  in  a  stream  it  is  a  sign 
you  will  return,"  said  Edrupt,  still  laughing,  "and  we  want 
neither  Waibling  nor  his  money  here  again.    Suppose  we  nail 


RICHARD'S  SILVER  PENNY  115 

it  up  by  the  market-cross  for  a  warning  to  others'?  How 
would  that  be^" 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  curious  collection  of  coins 
that  might  be  seen,  some  years  later,  nailed  to  a  post  in  the 
market  of  King's  Barton.  There  were  also  the  names  of 
those  who  had  passed  them,  and  in  time,  some  dishonest  goods 
also  were  fastened  up  there  for  all  to  see.  When  Richard 
saw  the  coin  in  its  new  place  he  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I'll  be  going  home  now,"  he  said.  "Mother's  alone,  and 
she  will  be  wanting  me." 

"Ride  with  me  so  far  as  Dame  Lavender's,"  said  the  wool- 
merchant  good-naturedly.     "What's  thy  name,  by  the  way?" 

"Richard  Garland.  Father  was  a  sailor,  and  his  name  was 
Sebastian,"  said  the  boy  soberly.  "Mother  won't  let  me  say 
he  is  drowned,  but  I'm  afraid  he  is." 

"Sebastian  Garland,"  repeated  Edrupt  thoughtfully.  "And 
so  thy  mother  makes  her  living  weaving  wool,  does  she?" 

"Aye,"  answered  Richard.  "She's  frae  Dunfermline  last, 
but  she  was  born  in  the  Highlands." 

"My  wife's  grandmother  was  Scotch,"  said  Edrupt  ab- 
sently. He  was  trying  to  remember  where  he  had  heard  the 
name  Sebastian  Garland.  He  set  Richard  down  after  ask- 
ing him  where  he  lived,  and  took  his  own  way  home  with 
Barbara,  his  wife  of  a  year.  He  told  Barbara  that  the  town 
was  well  rid  of  a  rascal,  but  she  knew  by  his  silence  thereafter 
that  he  was  thinking  out  a  plan. 

"Some  day,"  he  spoke  out  that  evening,  "there'll  be  a  law 
in  the  land  to  punish  these  dusty-footed  knaves.  They  go 
from  market  to  market  cheating  poor  folk,  and  we  have  no 
hold  on  them  because  we  cannot  leave  our  work.     But  about 


ii6  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

this  lad  Richard  Garland,  Barbara,  I've  been  a-thinking.  What 
it  we  let  him  and  his  mother  live  in  the  little  cottage  beyond 
the  sheepfold"?  The  boy  could  help  in  tending  the  sheep.  If 
they've  had  sheep  o'  their  own  they'll  know  how  to  make 
'emselves  useful,  I  dare  say.  And  then,  when  these  foreign 
fleeces  come  into  the  market,  the  dame  could  have  dyes  and 
so  on,  and  we  should  see  what  kind  o'  cloth  they  make." 

This  was  the  first  change  in  the  fortunes  of  Richard  Gar- 
land and  his  mother,  A  little  more  than  a  year  later  Sebas- 
tian Garland,  now  captain  of  Master  Gay's  ship,  the  Rose- 
in-June^  of  London,  came  into  port  and  met  Robert  Edrupt. 
On  inquiry  Edrupt  learned  that  the  captain  had  lost  his  wife 
and  son  many  years  before  in  a  town  which  had  been  swept 
by  the  plague.  When  he  heard  of  the  Highland-born  woman 
living  in  the  Longley  cottage,  he  journeyed  post-haste  to  find 
her,  and  discovered  that  she  was  indeed  his  wife,  and  Richard 
his  son.  By  the  time  that  Richard  was  old  enough  to  become 
a  trader,  a  court  known  as  the  Court  of  Pied-poudre  or  Dusty 
Feet  had  been  established  by  the  King  at  every  fair.  Its  pur- 
pose was  to  prevent  peddlers  and  wandering  merchants  from 
cheating  the  folk.  The  common  people  got  the  name  "Pie- 
powder Court,"  but  that  made  it  none  the  less  powerful.  King 
Henry  also  appointed  itinerant  justices — traveling  judges — 
to  go  about  from  place  to  place  and  judge  according  to  the 
King's  law,  with  the  aid  of  the  sheriffs  of  the  neighborhood 
who  knew  the  customs  of  the  people.  The  general  instructions 
of  these  courts  were  that  when  the  case  was  between  a  rich 
man  and  a  poor  man,  the  judges  were  to  favor  the  poor  man 
until  and  unless  there  was  reason  to  do  otherwise.  The  Nor- 
man barons,  coming  from  a  country  in  which  they  had  been 


RICHARD'S  SILVER  PENNY  117 

used  to  be  petty  kings  each  in  his  own  estate,  did  not  like 
this  much,  but  little  the  King  cared  for  that.  Merchants 
like  young  Richard  Garland  found  it  most  convenient  to 
have  one  law  throughout  the  land  for  all  honest  men.  Re- 
membering his  own  hard  boyhood,  Richard  never  failed  to 
be  both  just  and  generous  to  a  boy. 


PERFUMER'S  SONG 

The  rule  of  the  world  is  heavy  and  hard, 

Taketh    of   every    life    a    share, 
Strive  as  it  may  to  cherish  and  guard 

The  dawning  hope  that  was  all  so  fair, 
And  yet,   so  sure   as   the  night-wind  blows, 

Memory   dwells   in   her  place   apart, 
And   the   savor  of   rue   or   the   breath   of  a   rose 

Brings  peace  out  of  trouble,  dear  heart,  dear  heart  2 

There  was  never  a  joy  that  the  world  can  kill 

So  long  as  there  lives  a  dream  of  the  past, 
For  the  alchemist  in  his  fragrant  still 

Keeps   fresh   the   dream   to  the   very  last. 
So  sure  as  the  wind  of  the  morning  blows 

To  heal   the  trouble,  to  cool  the  smart. 
The  breath   of  lavender,   thyme   and   rose 

Will  bring  to  thee  comfort,  dear  heart,  dear  heart! 


X 


MARY  LAVENDER'S  GARDEN 


HOW  MARY  LAVENDER  CAME  TO  BE  OF  SERVICE  TO  AN  EXILED 

gUEEN 


M 


ARY  LAVENDER  lived  in  a  garden.  That  seems 
really  the  best  way  to  say  it.  The  house  of  Dame 
Annis  Lavender  was  hardly  more  than  four  walls  and 
a  roof,  a  green  door  and  two  small  hooded  windows. 
Instead  of  the  house  having  a  garden  the  garden  seemed 
rather  to  hold  the  cottage  in  a  blossomy  lap. 

A  long  time  ago  there  had  been  a  castle  on  the  low  hill 
above  the  cottage.  It  was  a  Saxon  castle,  roughly  built  of 
great  half-hewn  stones,  its  double  walls  partly  of  tramped 
earth.  Nearly  a  century  had  passed  since  a  Norman  baron 
had  received  the  "hundred''  in  which  the  castle  stood,  as  a 
reward  for  having  helped  Duke  William  become  William  the 

121 


122  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Conqueror.  His  domain  was  large  enough  for  a  hundred 
families  to  live  on,  getting  their  living  from  the  land.  The 
original  Saxon  owner  had  fled  to  join  Hereward  at  Ely,  and 
he  never  came  back. 

This  rude  Saxon  castle  was  not  what  the  Norman  needed, 
at  all.  He  must  have,  if  he  meant  to  be  safe  in  this  hostile 
land,  a  fortress  much  harder  to  take.  He  chose  a  taller  hill 
just  beyond  the  village,  made  it  higher  with  most  of  the 
stone  from  the  old  castle,  and  built  there  a  great  square  frown- 
ing keep  and  some  smaller  towers,  with  a  double  wall  of 
stone,  topped  by  battlements,  round  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and 
a  ditch  around  all.  No  stream  being  convenient  to  fill  the 
moat  he  left  it  dry.  Here,  where  the  Saxon  castle  had  been, 
was  nothing  but  a  dimpled  green  mound,  starred  over  in 
spring  with  pink  and  white  baby  daisies,  and  besprinkled  with 
dwarf  buttercups  and  the  little  flower  that  English  children 
call  Blue  Eyes.  Mary  liked  to  take  her  distaff  there  and  spin. 
The  old  castle  had  been  built  to  guard  a  ford.  The  Normans 
had  made  a  stone  bridge  at  a  narrower  and  deeper  point  in 
the  river,  and  Dame  Annis  and  Mary  washed  linen  in  the 
pool  above  the  ford. 

The  countryside  had  settled  down  to  the  rule  of  the  Nor- 
mans with  hardly  more  trouble  than  the  dismantled  mound. 
Travelers  often  came  over  the  new  bridge  and  stayed  at 
the  inn  on  their  way  to  or  from  London,  and  there  were  more 
than  twice  as  many  houses  as  there  had  been  when  Mary's 
mother  was  a  girl.  Older  people  complained  that  the  country 
could  never  endure  so  much  progress.  This  was  a  rather 
remote  region,  given  over  mainly  to  sheep-grazing.  On  the 
great  extent  of  "common"  still  unfenced,  the  sheep  wandered 


MARY  LAVENDER'S  GARDEN      123 

as  they  liked,  and  they  often  came  nibbling  about  Mary's 
feet  as  she  sat  on  the  mound. 

There  had  been  a  garden  about  the  ancient  castle — several, 
in  fact:  the  herb-garden,  the  vegetable  garden,  and  a  sort  of 
out-door  nursery  for  fruits  and  berries.  The  last  had  been 
against  a  southward-facing  wall  and  was  nearly  destroyed; 
but  herbs  are  tenacious  things,  and  the  old  roots  had  spread 
into  the  vegetable  patch,  and  flowers  had  seeded  themselves, 
until  Dame  Annis  moved  into  the  little  cottage  and  began  to 
make  her  living. 

Most  of  the  old-fashioned  cottage-garden  flowers  could  be 
found  there.  Thrift  raised  its  rose-red  spikes  in  crevices  of  a 
ruined  wall.  Bluebells,  the  wild  hyacinths,  made  heavenly 
patches  of  color  among  the  copses.  Great  beds  of  mustard 
and  lavender,  in  early  summer,  were  like  a  purple-and-gold 
mantle  flung  down  upon  a  field.  Presently  violets  bloomed 
in  orderly  rows  in  Dame  Annis's  new  herb-garden,  and  roses 
were  pruned  and  trimmed  and  trained  over  old  walls  and 
trees. 

It  may  seem  odd  that  violets  and  roses  should  be  among 
herbs.  The  truth  is  that  very  few  flowers  were  cultivated 
in  the  early  Middle  Ages  simply  for  ornament.  Violets  were 
used  to  make  perfume,  Roses  were  made  into  rose-water 
and  also  into  rose  conserve,  a  kind  of  sweetmeat  of  rose-petals, 
sugar  and  spice  packed  in  little  jars.  Marigolds  were  brought 
from  the  East  by  returning  Crusaders  for  use  in  broth.  Penny- 
royal, feverfew,  camomile,  parsley,  larkspur,  and  other  flowers 
used  to  be  grown  for  making  medicine.  One  of  the  few  herbs 
which  grow  in  modem  gardens,  which  the  Conqueror  found 
in  England  when  he  came,  is  tansy.    The  name  comes  from  a 


124  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Greek  word  meaning  immortality.  Tans}-  was  used  to  pre- 
serve meat,  and  to  flavor  various  dishes.  There  were  also 
sage,  marjorn.m,  thyme,  and  many  other  herbs  of  which  Dame 
Annis  did  not  know  the  names.  One  of  the  most  precious  finds 
that  she  made  in  her  digging  and  transplanting  was  a  root 
of  woad.  This  plant  was  used  for  blue  dye,  and  was  so  much 
in  demand  that  England  did  not  produce  enough  and  had  to 
import  it.  It  was  too  valuable  for  her  to  use  it  herself;  she 
cherished  it  and  fed  the  soil,  planting  every  seed,  promising 
Mar^-  that  some  day  she  should  have  a  gown  dyed  watchet 
blue,  of  linen  from  their  own  flax.  Mary  was  thinking  about 
that  gown  as  she  sat  spinning  and  listening  to  the  hum  of  the 
bees.  She  knew  exactly  how  it  would  be  made  from  begin- 
ning to  end. 

The  flax  would  be  soaked  in  the  brook  until  the  strong 
stem-fibers  were  all  that  were  left;  it  would  be  hackled  and 
washed  and  spun  and  finally  woven  by  their  neighbor,  Dame 
Garland,  for  Mary's  mother  had  no  loom.  This  neighbor 
was  as  poor  as  themselves,  but  they  would  pay  her  in  herbs 
and  dyestuffs.  The  leaves — not  the  flowers,  which  were 
yellow — from  the  woad,  would  be  crushed  into  a  paste  and 
allowed  to  ferment,  and  finally  made  into  little  balls  that 
would  keep  until  needed. 

Neither  perfume  nor  dye  could  be  bought  in  shops  there- 
abouts, and  there  were  no  factories  anywhere  for  making 
either.  Dame  Lavender  had  been,  before  she  was  married, 
maid  to  a  great  lady  who  had  taught  her  women  how  to  make 
such  things  out  of  the  plants  in  the  castle  garden.  Now, 
when  her  husband  failed  to  come  back  from  the  wars  in  France, 


MARY  LAVENDER'S  GARDEN      125 

she  turned  to  the  perfumer's  trade  as  the  one  which  she  knew 
best. 

There  are  a  great  man}-  wa}s  of  making  perfume  at  home. 
If  she  had  had  a  still,  Dame  Lavender  could  have  made  almost 
any  sort  of  ordinary  perfume,  flavor  or  medicine.  In  this 
process,  a  mixture  of  blossoms,  spices  and  drugs,  or  the  blos- 
soms alone,  or  the  leaves,  is  cooked  in  a  glass  bottle  called  a 
retort,  with  a  long  glass  tube  fitted  to  it  so  that  the  steam 
must  pass  through  the  tube  and  cool  in  little  drops.  These 
drops  run  out  into  a  glass  flask  and  are  the  perfume.  Another 
way  was  to  gather  flowers  when  perfectly  fresh  and  put  them 
into  a  kettle  of  alcohol,  which  would  take  up  the  scent  and 
keep  it  after  the  fiowers  are  taken  out.  Strong-scented  flow- 
ers or  leaves  were  put  with  salve  in  a  jar  and  covered,  to 
perfume  the  salve.  Dried  plants  of  pleasant  fragrance,  mixed 
with  salve,  could  be  left  until  the  scent  had  been  taken  up, 
then  the  whole  could  be  melted  and  strained  to  remove  the 
herbs.  Each  herb  and  flower  had  to  be  gathered  at  the  proper 
time,  and  dried  in  the  little  attic.  With  this  business,  and 
the  honey  which  the  bees  made,  and  the  spinning  done  by 
both  mother  and  daughter,  they  managed  to  make  a  living. 

One  day  when  they  were  at  their  busiest  an  old  man  came 
to  the  door  and  asked  for  a  night's  lodging.  He  had  a  gentle 
way  of  speaking,  although  his  cloak  was  threadbare,  and  he 
seemed  much  interested  in  their  work.  He  knew  some  of 
the  plants  which  they  had  never  been  able  to  name,  and  told 
what  they  were  good  for.  He  seemed  so  old,  poor  and  feeble, 
that  although  she  realh^  needed  all  the  money  she  could  earn, 
Dame  Lavender  refused  the  coin  he  offered  her.  She  felt 
that  if  he  fell  ill  somewhere,  he  might  need  it. 


126  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

The  Norman  castle  on  the  hill  had  not  been  really  lived 
in  for  some  ten  years.  There  was  a  company  of  soldiers  in  it, 
with  two  or  three  knights  who  came  and  went,  but  that  was 
all.  It  had  been  built  as  a  fortress,  imd  was  one;  and  the 
situation  was  such  that  it  could  not  easily  be  made  into  any- 
thing else.  The  baron  who  owned  it  was  in  attendance  uj^on 
the  King. 

Then,  one  day,  a  rumor  went  floating  about  the  village,  like 
the  scent  of  growing  hedges  in  spring.  It  was  said  that  the 
castle  was  to  be  set  in  order  for  some  great  lady;  and  that  she 
would  bring  with  her  two  or  three  maids  perhaps,  but  most 
of  the  work  was  to  be  done  by  the  people  of  the  village. 
This  was  rather  mystifying.  Mary  wondered  why  a  great 
lady  should  not  rather  choose  to  stay  at  the  nunnery,  where 
the  Lady  Abbess  had  all  things  seemly  and  well-planned.  It 
was  an  old  Saxon  religious  house  and  not  at  all  rich;  but  Mary 
always  liked  to  have  an  errand  up  Minchen  Lane.  The  lane 
had  got  its  name  from  the  nuns,  who  were  called  "minchens" 
a  long  while  ago.  Sometimes  they  sent  to  get  some  roots  or 
plants  from  the  garden  of  Dame  Lavender.  She  had  some 
kinds  that  they  had  not. 

It  was  nearly  certain,  at  any  rate,  that  the  housekeeper 
at  the  castle  would  want  lavender  and  violets,  and  Dame 
Annis  told  Mary  to  get  the  besom  and  sweep  out  the  still- 
room.  This  was  a  shed  with  a  stone  floor,  the  only  room  they 
had  which  was  not  used  for  living  or  sleeping.  The  room 
they  had  given  their  strange  guest,  Tomaso  of  Padua  as  he 
called  himself,  was  the  one  where  Mary  and  her  mother  usu- 
ally slept,  and  they  had  made  up  a  pallet  in  the  attic. 

Mary  worked  briskly  with  her  besom.     It  was  just  such 


MARY  LAVENDER'S  GARDEN      127 

a  broom  as  English  people  still  use  to  sweep  garden  walks,  a 
bundle  of  twigs  tied  on  a  stick  handle  with  a  pliant  osier. 
While  she  was  at  work  she  heard  the  gate  shut,  and  saw  old 
Tomaso  coming  in. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  she  was  exactly  glad  to  see  him. 
She  felt  that  they  might  have  all  that  they  could  do  without 
a  lodger  just  then.  She  spoke  to  him  courteously,  however, 
and  he  smiled  as  if  he  read  her  thoughts. 

"I  have  not  come  to  ask  for  your  hospitality  this  time," 
he  said,  "but  to  bring  your  good  mother  something  in  return 
for  her  kindness."  Beckoning  to  a  boy  who  stood  outside,  he 
opened  the  gate,  and  the  boy  led  in  a  little  donkey  laden 
with  the  basket-work  saddle-bags  called  paniers.  From  these 
Tomaso  took  all  the  parts  of  a  still,  some  fine  earthen  and 
glass  jars,  flasks  and  bowls,  and  bundles  of  spice  which  were 
like  a  whole  garden  packed  into  a  basket. 

"These,"  he  said,  "will  be  of  assistance  to  your  mother  in 
her  work.  I  see  her  coming  now,  and  I  will  talk  with  her 
awhile." 

Mary  felt  as  if  the  earth  had  turned  inside  out  when  she 
heard  the  outcome  of  that  conversation.  The  lady  who  was 
coming  to  the  castle  was  Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  Queen  of  Eng- 
land, and  her  coming  was  a  considerable  responsibility  to 
every  one  concerned.  She  had  been  found  just  ready  to  join 
her  sons,  Richard  and  Geoffrey,  in  Aquitaine,  where  they  were 
fighting  against  their  father,  and  she  was  to  be  shut  up  in 
this  remote  fortress,  in  charge  of  one  of  the  King's  most 
trusted  knights,  until  he  had  disposed  of  the  rebellion  and 
had  time  to  consider  the  case.  She  would  not,  she  declared, 
spend  her  days  in  a  nunnery,  and  the  nuns  of  Minchen  Lane 


128  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

were  anything  but  anxious  to  have  her.  There  was  a  room 
in  the  Norman  castle  which  could  be  fitted  up  as  a  still-room, 
and  it  was  desirable  to  have  whatever  was  needed  made  within 
the  walls  it  possible.  Would  Mary  undertake  to  go  there 
and  make  herself  useful,  either  in  ways  that  might  aid  the 
cook,  or  in  any  other  duties  that  she  saw?  The  cook  was  an 
Italian.  The  maids  of  honor  were  daughters  of  Norman- 
French  families.  Barbara  Edrupt,  the  wife  of  the  wool-mer- 
chant who  owned  Longley  Farm,  was  also,  it  appeared,  going 
to  lend  a  hand  with  the  spinning  and  train  one  or  two  country 
girls  for  the  rough  work.  It  was  no  small  task  to  maintain 
a  royal  lady  in  fitting  state,  even  though  she  was  a  prisoner. 
It  was  more  difficult  here  because  there  was  little  or  nothing 
to  do  it  with,  and  peddlers,  merchants  and  other  purveyors 
from  distant  London  or  Paris  might  be  a  source  of  danger. 

Dame  Annis  Lavender  was  rather  doubtful,  but  she  had 
confidence  in  Mary,  and  it  was  settled  that  Mary  should  go. 
She  was  to  have  the  gown  of  blue  sooner  than  she  thought. 
The  fiax  was  already  spun.  Dame  Garland  did  the  weaving, 
and  she  and  Mary's  mother  dipped  and  dipped  again  until 
the  web  was  a  deep  exquisite  blue  like  a  summer  sky.  Barbara 
made  Mary  a  gift  of  a  fair  white  linen  cap  and  kerchief. 
The  two  girls,  Barbara  with  her  black  eyes  and  hair,  Mary 
with  her  gold-brown  braids  and  calm  blue  eyes  and  wild-rose 
coloring,  made  a  pretty  picture  together. 

So  at  least  thought  the  troubadour  who  came  riding  by 
and  saw  them.  He  was  in  attendance  upon  the  castellan, 
Thibaut  of  Toulouse,  and  a  little  group  of  maids  and  pages 
coming  to  make  ready  for  the  Queen,  who  was  expected  to 
arrive  the  next  day.     Thibaut's  wife  had  been  a  Provengal 


iMARY  LAVENDER'S  GARDEN  129 

lady,  and  his  daughter  Philippa,  b)-  whose  side  the  trouba- 
dour was  riding,  was  a  trifle  homesick  for  her  childhood 
speech.     She  was  very  glad  of  Ranulph's  company. 

As  they  came  past  the  garden  she  bent  sidewise  in  her 
saddle  and  looked  eagerly  toward  the  gate.  "Do  you  see — 
there?"  she  cried.     "That  is  a  Provence  rose." 

"I  will  bring  you  some,"  the  troubadour  answered,  and  a 
moment  later  he  was  striding  toward  the  two  girls  among 
the  flowers.  They  had  never  seen  any  one  like  him, — so  gay, 
so  courteous  and  so  straightforward. 

"I  come  to  beg  a  rose,"  he  said.  "Are  not  these  the  red 
roses  of  Provence?" 

"Surely,"  answered  Barbara.  "I  brought  the  bush  from 
my  own  home,  and  gave  Mary  a  cutting.  There  never  was 
such  a  rose  for  bloom  and  sweetness,  we  think.  My  husband 
he  says  so  too." 

Barbara  blushed  and  smiled  a  little  when  she  spoke  of  Rob- 
ert, and  she  and  Mary  quickly  filled  a  basket  with  the  roses. 
The  next  morning  Ranulph  came  again  with  the  Provengal 
maid  of  honor  to  get  more  flowers,  and  "strowing  herbs," — 
sweet-scented  plants  that  gave  out  their  fragrance  when  trod- 
den upon.  The  rushes  used  for  floor-covering  were  often 
mixed  with  these  on  festival  days,  and  when  new  rushes  were 
to  be  put  down  the  whole  might  be  swept  into  the  fire  and 
burned.  The  maids  of  honor  made  garlands  for  the  wall,  and 
thus  the  first  breath  of  air  the  Queen  drew  in  her  grim,  small 
stone  rooms  high  in  the  castle  keep,  was  laden  with  the  scent 
of  the  blossoms  of  the  South. 

It  was  a  cheerless  abode,  Mary  and  Barbara  thought.  There 


130  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

were  no  hangings,  no  costly  dishes  nor  candlesticks,  no  weap- 
ons or  anything  tluit  could  be  made  into  a  weapon,  nor  any 
jewels  or  rich  clothing. 

Mary  wondered  a  little  that  certain  richly  embroidered  tap- 
estries which  belonged  to  the  nuns  had  not  been  borrowed, 
for  she  knew  that  the  Lady  Abbess  had  lent  them  now  and 
then,     l^hilippa  could  have  told  her. 

"It  is  well,"  said  the  Queen  haughtily  when  she  had  seen 
her  apartments,  "that  they  have  given  me  no  gold- woven 
arras  for  my  prison.  I  think  I  would  burn  it  for  the  gold — 
if  any  of  these  jailers  of  mine  could  be  bought  perchance." 

The  captivity  of  the  royal  prisoner  was  not,  however,  very 
severe.  She  sometimes  rode  out  under  guard,  she  was  allowed 
to  walk  upon  the  terrace  and  in  the  walled  garden,  and  she 
talked  sometimes  with  the  troubadour  and  with  old  Tomaso. 
In  one  of  the  older  towers  of  the  castle  the  physician  had  his 
rooms,  and  here  he  read  in  ancient  books,  or  brewed  odd  mix- 
tures in  his  retorts  and  crucibles.  He  taught  Mary  more 
about  the  management  of  a  still,  the  use  of  herbs  and  the 
making  of  essences  than  she  had  ever  dreamed  there  was 
to  learn.  Physicians  in  those  days  might  be  quacks  or 
alchemists.  Here  and  there  one  was  what  we  call  an  experi- 
mental chemist.  Nearly  a  hundred  years  later  some  of  To- 
maso's  papers  proved  most  valuable  to  the  University  of 
Padua. 


M 


PAVEMENT  SONG 

All  along  the  cobblestones  by  Saint  Paul's, 
Clippety-clack  the  music  runs,  quick  footfalls, 
Folk  that  go  a-hurrying,  all  on  business  bent. 
They'll  come  to  us  in  time,  and  we  are  content. 

So  we  keep  our  cobble-shop,  by  Saint  Paul's 
Hammer-stroke  and  wax-thread,  chasing  up  the  awls, 
Cobbling  is  a  merry  trade,— we'll  not  change  with  you, 
We've  leather  good  cheap,  and  all  we  can  do ! 


XI 
SAINT  CRISPIN'S  DAY 

HOW    CRISPIN,    THE    SHOEMAKER's    SON,    MADE    A    SHOE    FOR   A 
LITTLE   DAMSEL,   AND   NEW   STREETS  IN    LONDON 

"Rip-rap — tip-tap — 

Tick-a-tack — too ! 
Scarlet    leather   sewed    together — 

Thus  we  make  a  shoe!" 

— William  Allingpiam. 

LONDON  was  a  busy  town  when  the  loilg  Venetian 
galleys  and  the  tall  ships  of  Spain  anchored  in  the 
Pool  of  the  Thames.  Leather  and  silk  and  linen  and 
velvet  and  broadcloth  came  to  the  London  wharves,  and 
London  people  were  busy  buying,  selling,  making  and  decorat- 
ing ever)'  sort  of  apparel,  from  the  girdle  to  hold  a  sword  to 
the  silken  hood  and  veil  of  a  lady.  And  nobody  was  busier 
than  the  men  who  worked  in  leather. 

Nowadays  we  go  into  a  shop  and  try  on  shoes  made  perhaps 
a  thousand  miles  away,  until  we  find  a  pair  that  will  fit.  But 
when  Crispin  Eyre's  father  sold  a  pair  of  shoes  he  had  seen 
those  shoes  made  in  his  own  shop,  under  his  own  eye,  and 
chosen  the  leather.  It  might  be  calfskin  from  the  yard  of  a 
tanner,  who  bought  his  hides  from  the  man  who  had  raised 
the  calf  on  his  farm,  or  it  might  be  fine  soft  goatskin  out  of  a 

133 


134  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

bale  from  the  galleons  of  Spain,  In  either  case  he  had  to  know 
all  about  leather,  or  he  would  not  succeed  in  the  shoe  business. 
The  man  who  aspired  to  be  a  master  shoemaker  had  to  know 
how  to  make  the  whole  shoe.  More  different  kinds  of  shoes 
were  made  in  Thomas  Eyre's  shop  than  most  shops  sell  to-day, 
and  as  he  had  begun  to  use  the  hammer  and  the  awl  when 
he  was  not  yet  ten  years  old,  he  knew  how  every  kind  should 
be  made. 

Early  in  the  morning,  before  a  modern  family  would  be 
awake,  hammers  were  going  in  the  shoe-shops — tap-tap — tick- 
a-tack — tack!  Sometimes  by  the  light  of  a  betty  lamp  in  the 
early  winter  evenings  the  journeymen  would  be  still  at  work, 
drawing  the  waxed  thread  carefully  and  quickly  through  the 
leather.  Hand-sewn  and  made  of  well-tanned  hide,  such  a 
shoe  could  be  mended  again  and  again  before  it  was  outworn. 
Riding-boots,  leather  shoes,  slippers,  sandals,  clogs,  pattens, 
shoes  of  cloth,  silk,  morocco,  cloth-of-gold,  velvet,  with  soles 
made  of  wood,  leather,  cork  and  sometimes  even  iron,  went  to 
and  fro  in  the  shadow  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  and  sooner 
or  later  every  kind  crossed  the  threshold  of  Thomas  Eyre's 
shop.  The  well-to-do  came  to  order  shoes  for  themselves,  and 
the  wooden-shod  and  barefoot  came  to  get  the  shoes  others 
would  wear. 

Each  trade  kept  to  its  own  street,  even  in  those  early  days. 
When  the  Guilds  had  multiplied  so  that  each  part  of  each 
trade  had  its  own  workers,  who  were  not  supposed  to  do  any- 
thing outside  their  trade,  the  man  who  made  a  shoe  never 
mended  one,  and  the  cobbler  never  made  anything.  Each 
trade  had  its  Guild  Hall,  where  the  members  met  for  business 
councils  or  holidays,   and  some  of  them  had  their  favorite 


SAINT  CRISPIN'S  DAY  135 

churches.  It  was  like  a  very  exclusive  club.  Men  and  women 
belonged  to  these  societies,  they  made  rules  about  the  length 
of  time  a  man  must  work  before  he  could  be  a  master  workman, 
and  they  took  care  of  their  own  poor  folk  out  of  a  common 
fund.  Each  Guild  had  its  patron  saint,  connected  in  some 
way  with  the  craft  it  represented.  The  especial  saint  of  the 
shoemakers  was  St.  Crispin,  and  his  day  was  the  twenty-fifth 
of  October. 

The  leather  workers  were  among  the  most  important  arti- 
sans of  London,  and  in  course  of  time  each  branch  of  the  trade 
had  its  own  Guild  Hall.  The  cordwainers  or  leather  workers 
took  their  name  from  Cordova  in  Spain,  famous  for  its  beau- 
tiful dyed,  stamped,  gilded  and  decorated  leather.  The  sad- 
dlers had  their  hall,  and  the  lorimers  or  harness-makers  theirs, 
and  the  skinners  and  leather  sellers  and  tanners  had  theirs. 
London  was  rather  behind  some  of  the  cities  on  the  Continent, 
however,  both  in  the  number  and  the  power  of  her  guilds. 
King  Henry  II.  was  not  over-inclined  to  favor  guilds,  espe- 
cially in  London,  for  London  was  too  independent,  as  it  was, 
to  please  him.  He  had  observed  that  when  cities  grew  so 
strong  that  they  governed  themselves  they  were  quite  likely  to 
make  trouble  for  Kings,  and  not  unnaturally,  he  felt  that  he 
had  trouble  enough  on  his  hands  as  things  were  without  invit- 
ing more.  If  he  had  allowed  it  London  would  have  had  a 
"Commune,"  as  the  organization  of  a  self-governing  city  was 
called,  long  ago. 

Crispin  heard  this  discussed  more  or  less,  for  all  sorts  of 
chattering  and  story-telling  went  on  in  the  shop,  and  he  heard 
also  many  stories  which  tended  to  make  him  think.  The  popu- 
lar tales  and  songs  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  not  by  any  means 


136  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

always  respectful  to  Kings.  The  people  understood  very 
well  that  there  were  good  monarchs  and  bad  ones,  and  they 
were  not  blind  to  the  reasons  for  the  difference. 

The  story  that  Crispin  liked  best  was  the  one  about  his  own 
name,  and  on  this  October  day,  seated  on  his  low  bench  beside 
Simon,  the  oldest  of  his  shoemakers,  he  asked  for  it  again. 

"Aye,  I'll  warrant,"  grunted  Simon,   "an  Eyre  would  be 

a  born  shoemaker,  and  name  him  Crispin Eh,  lad,  what 

be  you  after  with  that  leather*?" 

Crispin's  fingers  were  strong,  if  small,  and  he  was  busy 
with  hammer  and  awl  and  waxed  thread,  making  a  little  shoe. 

"Just  a  shoe,  Simon — go  on  with  the  story,"  said  the  boy, 
with  a  little,  shut-mouthed  grin.  Simon  fitted  the  sole  to  the 
boot  he  was  making  and  picked  up  his  hammer. 

"It  was  a  long  time  ago — (tap-tap)  when  the  emperor  of 
Rome  was  a-hunting  down  the  blessed  martyrs,  that  there  were 
two  brothers,  Crispin  and  Crispian  their  names  were,  who 
lived  in  Rome  and  did  nothing  but  kindness  to  every  one.  But 
there  be  rascals — (trip-trip-trap I) — who  do  not  understand 
kindness,  and  ever  repay  it  with  evil.  One  of  such  a  sort 
lived  in  the  same  street  as  the  two  brothers,  and  secretly  ran 
to  tell  the  Emperor  that  they  were  plotting  against  his  life. 
Then  privately  the  wife  of  this  evil-doer  came  and  warned 
them,  for  that  they  had  given  her  shoes  to  her  feet.  So  they 
fled  out  of  the  city  by  night  and  came  to  France  and  dwelt 
in  Soissons,  where  the  cathedral  now  is. 

"This  England  was  a  heathen  country  then,  they  say,  and 
France  not  much  better.  Before  long  the  king  of  that  king- 
dom heard  of  the  strangers  and  sent  for  them  to  know  what 
their  business  was.     When  they  said  that  their  business  was 


SAINT  CRISPIN'S  DAY  137 

to  teach  the  people  the  story'  of  our  Lord,  he  asked  who  this 
lord  might  be,  and  whether  he  was  mightier  than  the  king,  or 
not. 

"Then  when  the  heathen  king  heard  that  the  Lord  of  Cris- 
pin and  Crispian  was  more  powerful  than  either  King  or 
emperor  he  had  a  mind  to  kill  them,  but  he  was  afraid.  He 
asked  if  they  had  ever  seen  a  palace  finer  than  his  own,  that 
was  made  of  wood  and  hung  with  painted  leather,  and  they 
said  that  there  were  finer  ones  in  Rome.  Then  said  the  king, 
'Give  me  a  sign  of  the  greatness  of  your  Lord.'  And  they 
asked  him  what  it  should  be.  And  the  king  said,  'Cover  the 
streets  of  my  city  with  leather  and  you  shall  go  forth  un- 
harmed.'    Only  the  rich  had  any  leather  in  those  parts. 

"That  night  Crispin  and  Crispian  took  the  leather  hide 
of  their  girdles  and  made  a  pair  of  shoes  for  the  king.  And 
when  they  came  before  him  in  the  morning,  they  put  the 
shoes  upon  his  feet,  the  first  shoes  he  had  ever  seen,  and  told 
him  to  walk  abroad  and  he  would  find  all  the  streets  covered 
with  leather." 

The  apprentices  had  been  listening,  and  a  laugh  went  round 
the  shop,  as  it  always  did  at  that  part  of  the  tale. 

"Thus  it  came  to  pass,"  concluded  Simon,  "that  the  two 
brothers  lived  at  court  and  taught  the  king's  leather  workers 
how  to  make  shoes,  and  that  is  why  Saint  Crispin  is  the  friend 
of  shoemakers." 

"What  was  the  name  of  him  who  told  you  the  tale,  Simon"?" 
Crispin  asked  thoughtfully. 

"Oh,  he  is  dead  these  many  years,  but  his  name  was  Benet, 
and  he  came  from  Soissons,  and  had  been  to  Rome  and  seen 
the  street  where  the  brothers  lived.     He  had  a  nail  out  of 


138  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

one  of  the  shoes  they  made  for  the  king.  People  came  to  our 
house  while  he  was  with  us,  only  to  see  that  nail  and  hear 
the  story.    I  heard  it  so  many  times  that  I  learned  it  by  heart." 

Old  Simon  drove  in  the  last  nail  with  a  vicious  stroke  that 
sent  it  well  into  the  leather.  "I'll  warrant,"  he  said,  "the 
blessed  Saint  Crispin  made  none  o'  them  shoes  we  make  here, 
with  pointed  toes  and  rose  windows  on  the  leather,  fitten  for 
a  lady."  He  held  up  the  shoe  with  great  disfavor.  It  was 
for  a  courtier,  and  the  toe  was  two  feet  long  and  turned  up, 
with  a  chain  to  fasten  it  to  the  knee.  The  front  of  the  shoe 
was  cut  into  open  work  in  a  wheel  shape  to  show  the  gay 
silken  hose  underneath,  and  the  shoe  itself  was  of  soft  fine 
leather.  With  a  parting  sniff,  Simon  tossed  it  to  a  slim,  grin- 
ning youth  who  would  finish  it  by  putting  on  gilding. 

The  shoe  that  Crispin  was  making  was  of  a  different  sort. 
It  was  a  little  round-toed  sturdy  thing,  about  the  right  size 
for  a  child  of  ten.  The  mate  to  it  was  on  the  bench  at  his  side, 
and  he  put  them  together  and  looked  at  them  rather  ruefully. 
The  shoe  he  had  made  was  plain,  and  the  other  was  trimmed 
daintily  with  red  morocco  and  cut  in  a  quaint  round  pattern 
on  the  toe — the  decoration  that  was  known  as  "a  Paul's  win- 
dow," because  the  geometric  cut-work  with  the  colored  lining 
looked  like  stained  glass.    Crispin  frowned  and  shook  his  head. 

"What's  ailin'  ye,  lad'?"  Old  Simon  peered  at  the  shoes 
in  the  boy's  hands.     "Bless  ye,  those  ben't  mates  I" 

"I  know  that,  but  I  haven't  any  colored  leather  for  this 
one  even  if  I  knew  how  to  finish  it,"  Crispin  said  with  a  sigh. 

"Um-m-m!"  Simon  looked  more  closely  at  the  little  gay 
shoe.  "That  never  came  from  these  parts.  That's  Turkey 
leather."    He  gave  Crispin  a  sharp  glance.    The  great  bell  of 


SAINT  CRISPIN'S  DAY  139 

Bow  was  ringing  and  the  apprentices  were  quitting  work. 
"Where  did  this  shoe  come  from,  now?" 

Crispin  hesitated.  "Don't  3'ou  tell,  now,  Simon.  I  found  a 
little  maid  crying  in  Candlewick  street — standing;  on  one  foot 
like  a  duck  because  she  had  lost  her  other  shoe.  She  was  so 
light  I  could  lift  her  up,  and  I  set  her  on  a  wall  while  I  looked 
for  the  shoe,  but  it  wasn't  any  good,  for  a  horse  had  stepped 
on  it.  She  cried  so  about  the  shoe  that  I — I  said  I  would  make 
her  another.  And  then  her  father  came  back  for  her  and  took 
her  away." 

"Who  might  she  be?"  inquired  Simon  dryly. 

"I  don't  know.  I  didn't  tell  father.  She  said  she  would 
send  for  the  shoes  though." 

Simon  had  been  rummaging  in  a  leather  bag  behind  his 
bench.  "If  she  don't  there's  plenty  of  other  little  wenches 
that  wear  shoes.  If  the  leather  should  be  blue  in  place  o'  red, 
would  that  matter?" 

"I  shouldn't  think  so;  one  shoe  is  no  good  alone."  Crispin 
began  to  be  hopeful. 

Old  Simon  pulled  out  some  pieces  of  soft  fine  leather  the 
color  of  a  harebell  and  began  to  cut  them  quickly  and  deftly 
into  fine  scalloped  borders.  "This  ben't  Turkey  leather, 
but  it  is  a  piece  from  Spain,  and  they  learnt  the  trade  of  the 
paynim,  so  I  reckon  'twill  do.  Stitch  this  on  the  other  shoe 
in  place  o'  the  red.  and  I'll  cut  the  pattern." 

Nobody  would  have  believed  that  Simon's  old,  crooked 
fingers  could  handle  a  knife  so  cleverly.  In  no  time  the  pat- 
tern on  the  old  shoe  had  been  copied  exactly  on  the  new  one. 
When  Crispin  had  stitched  the  blue  cut-work  border  on  both, 


140  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

and  Simon  had  rubbed  the  new  leather  on  some  old  scraps  and 
cleaned  the  old  a  bit,  the  two  little  shoes  looked  like  twins. 

"Is  there  a  boy  here  named  Crispin  Eyre'?"  inquired  a  man's 
voice  from  the  doorway.  Almost  at  the  same  time  came  the 
sweet  lilting  speech  of  a  little  girl,  "Oh,  father,  that  is  the  boy 
who  was  so  kind  to  me  I" 

Crispin  and  old  Simon  stood  up  and  bowed,  for  the  man 
who  spoke  was  a  dignified  person  in  the  furred  cloak  and  cap 
of  a  well-to-do  merchant.  The  little  girl  held  fast  to  her 
father's  hand  and  gazed  into  the  shop  with  bright  interest. 
"Look  at  the  shoes,  father,  aren't  they  pretty?" 

The  merchant  balanced  the  little  shoes  in  his  broad  hand. 
"Which  did  you  lose,  Genevieve,  child?" 

"I — I  don't  know,  father,"  the  child  said,  pursing  her 
soft  lips.    "Cannot  you  tell?" 

"By  my  faith,"  said  the  merchant  thoughtfully,  "if  a  Lon- 
don shoemaker's  boy  docs  work  like  this  I  doubt  Edrupt  may 
be  right  when  he  says  our  ten  fingers  are  as  good  as  any.  This 
shoe  is  one  of  a  pair  from  Cordova.    Who's  your  father,  lad?" 

"My  father  is  Thomas  Eyre,  so  please  you,  master,"  said 
the  boy  proudly,  "and  I  am  Crispin." 

"A  good  craft  and  a  good  name  and  a  good  workman,"  said 
the  merchant,  and  dropped  a  coin  into  the  litter  of  leather 
scraps.    It  was  the  full  price  of  a  new  pair  of  shoes. 

Crispin  certainly  could  not  have  dreamed  that  his  kindness 
to  little  Genevieve  Gay  would  be  the  occasion  of  new  streets 
in  London,  but  it  happened  so.  Master  Gay,  the  merchant, 
came  later  to  talk  with  Thomas  Eyre  about  the  shoe  trade. 
Then,  instead  of  sending  a  cargo  of  Irish  hides  abroad  he  gave 
Eyre  the  choice  of  them.     Other  shoemakers  took  the  rest,  the 


SAINT  CRISPIN'S  DAY  141 

shoe  trade  of  London  jj;rcw,  and  so  did  the  tanneries.  The 
tanners  presently  needed  more  room  by  running  water,  and 
sought  new  quarters  outside  London  Wall.  The  business  of 
London  kept  on  growing  until  the  Leatherworkers'  Guild  had 
presently  to  send  abroad  for  their  own  raw  material.  England 
became  more  and  more  a  manufacturing  country  and  less  a 
farming  country.  In  one  or  another  trade  almost  every  farm- 
ing product  was  of  use.  Hides  were  made  into  leather,  beef 
went  to  the  cook-shops ;  horn  was  made  into  drinking-cups  and 
lantern-lights,  bones  were  ground  or  burnt  for  various  pur- 
poses, tallow  made  candles.  What  the  farmer  had  been  used 
to  do  for  himself  on  his  farm,  the  Guilds  began  to  do  in  com- 
panies, and  their  fann  was  England. 


CONCEALED  WEAPONS 

The  tiniest  weed  that  blooms  in  fallow  ground 

Arms  all  its  children  for  the  battle-field. 

Its  myriad  warriors  weapon'd  cap-a-pie 

Swarm  forth  upon  the  land.     The  bursting  pods 

Their  elfin  shrapnel  scatter  far  and  wide. 

Aerial  scouts  on  downy  pinions  flit, 

And  awns  prick  lancet-wise,  and  clutching  burs 

Grapple  the  fleeces  of  the  wandering  sheep, 

Invade  the  farm-lands  and  possess  the  soil. 

The  curse  of  Eden  falling  on  the  flowers 
Drove  them  to  self-defense  and  made  the  world 
One  vast  weed-garden.    Yea,  more  djeadful  still, 
Buried  within   the  heart  of  many   a  plant 
Lie  deadly  drops  of  poisonous  essences, 
Nightshade  and  spearwort,  aconite  and  poppy. 
That  slay  more  swift  and  sure  than  tempered  steel. 

The  least  of  little  folk,  or  soon  or  late. 
May  by  such  hidden  terrors  rule  the  grait. 
The  least  of  little  folk,  unseen,  unknown. 
May  find  that  saving  strengtli  is  theirs  alone. 


XII 
THE  LOZENGES  OF  GIOVANNI 

HOW     A     MILANESE     BAKER-BOY    AND    A     PADUAN     PHYSICIAN 
KEPT  POISON  OUT  OF  THE   KING's  DISH 

RANULPH  the  troubadour  was  riding  along  a  lonely 
moorland  trail,  singing  softly  to  himself.  In  so  poor  a 
neighborhood  there  was  little  fear  of  robbers,  and  the 
Barbary  horse  which  he  had  under  him  could  outrun 
most  other  horses.  The  light-stepping  hoofs  made  little  noise 
upon  the  springy  turf,  and  as  the  song  ended  he  heard  some 
one  sobbing  behind  a  group  of  stunted  bushes.  He  halted 
and  listened.    The  sound  ceased. 

"Ho  there,  little  one — what  is  the  trouble'?" 

He  spoke  in  Saxon,  the  language  of  the  country  folk,  but 

at  the  first  words  a  figure  sprang  up  and  dodged  from  shrub  to 

rock  like  a  scared  leveret.    He  called  again  quickly  in  French: 

"Holal  little  friend,  wait  a  moment  I" 

There  was  no  answer.     Somehow  he  did  not  like  to  leave 

the  mystery  unsolved.     There  must  be  a  child  in  trouble, 

but  what  child  could  there  be  in  this  wild  place,  and  neither 

Norman  nor  Saxon*?     It  was  not  far  enough  to  the  West  to 

be  Welsh  borderland,  and  it  was  too  far  south  to  be  near  either 

Scotland  or  the  Danelaw.     He  spoke  in  Provengal,  and  the 

fugitive  halted  at  the  sound  of  the  soft  southern  o's  and  a's; 

then  he  spoke  again  in  the  Lombard  dialect  of  Milan.    A  boy 

us 


146  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

ventured  out  of  the  thicket  and  stood  staring  at  him.  Ranulph 
flung  himself  off  his  horse  and  held  out  his  hand, 

"Come  here,  little  comrade,  and  tell  me  who  you  are,  and 
why  you  are  all  alone  here." 

The  boy's  dark  eyes  grew  wider  in  his  elvish  face  and  his 
hands  opened  and  shut  nervously  as  he  answered  in  Italian: 

"I  am  no  one,  and  I  have  no  home.    Take  me  not  to  prison." 

"There  is  no  thought  of  a  prison,  my  lad,  but  I  cannot 
wait  here.  Come,  ride  with  me,  and  I  will  take  you  to  a  kind 
woman  who  will  take  care  of  you." 

The  boy  hesitated,  but  at  last  loneliness  conquered  timidity 
and  distrust,  and  he  came.  The  troubadour  swung  him  up  to 
the  front  of  the  saddle  and  they  rode  on  through  the  gathering 
dusk.  Forgetting  his  terror  as  he  heard  the  familiar  sound  of 
his  native  tongue,  the  boy  told  his  story  readily  enough.  His 
name  was  Giovanni  Bergamotto,  but  he  had  been  born  in 
Milan,  in  the  year  that  Barbarossa  crossed  the  Alps.  The  first 
thing  that  he  could  really  remember  was  his  mother  crying 
over  her  father  and  two  brothers,  who  had  been  killed  in  the 
siege.  He  remembered  many  days  when  there  was  nothing  to 
eat  in  the  house.  When  Milan  was  taken  he  was  old  enough 
to  walk  at  his  mother's  side  as  the  people  were  driven  out  and 
the  city  destroyed  so  that  no  one  should  ever  live  there  again. 
His  father  had  been  killed  when  the  Emperor  hung  a  siege- 
tower  all  over  with  hostages  and  captives  to  be  shot  at  by  their 
own  people  within  the  walls.  He  remembered  his  grandfather 
lifting  him  up  to  see  when  the  Carocchio  was  brought  out, 
and  the  great  crucifix  above  the  globe  was  lowered  to  do 
homage  to  the  Emperor.    He  remembered  seeing  the  Imperial 


THE  LOZENGES  OF  GIOVANNI         •    147 

banner  unfurled  from  the  top  of  the  Cathedral.  These  things, 
his  grandfather  told  him,  no  Milanese  should  ever  forget. 

He  and  his  mother  had  wandered  about  from  one  city  to 
another  until  his  mother  died,  two  or  three  years  later.  He 
had  worked  for  a  pastry  cook  who  beat  him  and  starved  him. 
At  last  he  had  run  away  and  stolen  his  passage  on  a  ship 
bound  for  England.  They  had  beaten  him  when  they  found 
him,  but  kept  him  to  help  the  cook.  When  he  landed  at  a 
southern  port  on  the  English  coast,  he  had  found  himself  in 
a  land  of  cold  mist,  where  no  sun  shone,  no  fruit  grew,  and 
no  one  knew  his  language.  He  had  turned  at  first  naturally 
to  the  towns,  for  he  was  a  city  boy  and  craved  the  compan- 
ionship of  the  crowd.  But  when  he  said  that  he  was  a  Lom- 
bard they  seemed  to  be  angry.  Perhaps  there  was  some  dread- 
ful mistake,  and  he  was  in  a  land  where  the  Ghibellines,  the 
friends  of  the  Emperor,  were  the  rulers. 

When  at  last  he  faltered  out  this  question  his  new  friend 
gave  a  compassionate  little  laugh  and  patted  his  shoulder  re- 
assuringly. 

"No,  little  one,  there  is  no  fear  of  that.  This  is  England, 
and  the  English  King  rules  all  the  people.  We  have  neither 
Guelf  nor  Ghibelline.  A  red  rose  here — is  just  a  rose,"  he 
added  as  he  saw  Giovanni's  questioning  look  at  the  crimson 
rose  in  his  cap.  Red  roses  were  the  flower  of  the  Guelf  party 
in  North-Italian  cities,  as  the  white  rose  was  the  badge  of  the 
Ghibellines  who  favored  the  Imperial  party;  and  the  cities 
were  divided  between  the  two  and  fiercely  partisan. 

"The  Lombards  in  London,"  Ranulph  went  on,  "are  often 
money-lenders,  and  this  the  people  hate.     That  is  why  thy 


148  IN  THE  DAYS  OF   THE  GUILD 

black  hair  and  eyes  and  thy  Lombard  tongue  made  them  sus- 
pect thee,  little  comrade." 

Giovanni  gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief  and  fell  silent,  and 
when  he  was  lifted  off  the  horse  at  the  door  of  Dame  Laven- 
der he  had  to  be  shaken  awake  to  eat  his  supper.  Then  he 
was  put  to  bed  in  a  corner  of  the  attic  under  the  thatched 
roof,  and  the  fragrance  of  well-known  herbs  and  flowers  came 
stealing  into  his  dreams  on  the  silent  wind  of  the  night. 

Language  is  not  needed  when  a  boy  finds  himself  in  the 
home  of  a  born  mother.  All  the  same,  Giovanni  felt  still  more 
as  if  he  must  have  waked  up  in  heaven  when  he  found  sitting 
by  the  hearth  a  kind,  grave  old  man  who  was  himself  an 
Italian,  and  to  whom  the  tragedy  of  the  downfall  of  Milan 
was  known.  Tomaso  the  physician  told  Dame  Lavender  all 
about  it  while  Giovanni  was  helping  Marj^  sort  herbs  in  the 
still-room.  Mary  had  learned  a  little  of  the  physician's  lan- 
guage and  knew  what  he  liked,  and  partly  by  signs,  partly 
in  hobbling  Italian,  they  arrived  at  a  plan  for  making  a 
vegetable  soup  and  cooking  a  chicken  for  dinner  in  a  way  that 
Giovanni  knew.  As  the  fragrance  of  the  simmering  broth 
came  in  at  the  door  Tomaso  sniffed  it,  smiled  and  went  to  see 
what  the  little  waif  was  about.  Standing  in  the  doorway  he 
watched  Giovanni  slicing  garlic  and  nodded  to  himself.  Men 
had  died  of  a  swift  dagger-thrust  in  a  bye-street  of  Lombardy 
because  they  cut  an  onion  or  ate  an  orange  in  the  enemy's 
fashion.  By  such  small  signs  were  Guelf  and  Ghibelline 
known. 

"My  boy,"  said  the  old  physician,  when  dinner  was  over  and 
Giovanni,  pleased  beyond  measure  at  the  compliments  paid 


THE  LOZENGES  OF  GIOVANNI  149 

his  cooking,  was  awaiting  further  orders,  "do  you  know  that 
Milan  is  going  to  be  rebuilt'?" 

The  Milanese  boy's  pinched  white  face  lighted  with  in- 
credulous rapture.     "Rebuilt'?"  he  stammered. 

"Some  day,"  said  Tomaso.  "The  people  of  four  Lombard 
cities  met  in  secret  and  made  that  vow  not  three  years  after 
the  Emperor  gained  his  victory.  They  have  built  a  city  at  the 
joining  of  two  rivers,  and  called  it  Alexandria  after  the  Pope 
whom  he  drove  out  of  Rome.  He  still  has  his  own  governors 
in  the  cities  that  he  conquered,  but  the  League  is  gaining  every 
month.  Milan  will  be  once  more  the  Queen  of  the  Midland 
— perhaps  before  very  long.     But  it  is  a  secret." 

"They  may  kill  me,"  Giovanni  stammered,  "but  I  will  not 
tell.     I  will  never  tell." 

Tomaso  smiled.  "I  knew  that,  my  son,"  he  said.  "That 
is  why  I  spoke  of  this  to  you.  You  ma)'  talk  freely  to  me  or 
to  Ranulph  the  troubadour,  but  to  no  one  else  unless  we  give 
you  leave.  You  must  be  patient,  wise  and  industrious,  and 
fit  yourself  to  be  a  true  citizen  of  the  Commune.  For  the 
present,  you  must  be  a  good  subject  of  the  English  King,  and 
learn  the  language." 

Giovanni  hid  the  precious  secret  in  his  heart  during  the 
months  that  followed,  and  learned  both  English  and  French 
with  a  rapidit)^  that  astonished  Dame  Lavender.  He  had  a 
wisdom  in  herbs  and  flowers,  too,  that  was  almost  uncanny. 
In  the  kitchen-gardens  of  the  great  houses  where  he  had 
been  a  scullion,  there  were  many  plants  used  for  perfumes, 
flavorings  or  coloring  fluids,  which  were  quite  unknown  to 
the  English  cook.  He  was  useful  to  Dame  Lavender  both 
in  the  garden  and  the  still-room.    He  knew  how  to  make  vari- 


ISO  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

ous  delicious  cakes  as  well,  and  how  to  combine  spices  and 
honey  and  syrups  most  cunningly,  for  he  had  seen  pastry- 
cooks and  confectioners  preparing  state  banquets,  and  he  never 
forgot  anything  he  had  seen. 

The  castle  which  crowned  the  hill  in  the  midst  of  the  small 
town  where  Dame  Lavender  lived  had  lately  been  set  in  order 
for  the  use  of  a  very  great  lady — a  lady  not  young,  but  ac- 
customed to  luxury  and  good  living — and  all  the  resources 
of  Dame  Lavender's  garden  had  been  taxed  to  provide  per- 
fumes, ointments  and  fresh  rose-leaves,  for  the  linen-presses 
and  to  be  strewn  about  the  floors.  Mary  and  her  mother  had 
all  that  they  could  do  in  serving  Queen  Eleanor. 

The  Queen  was  not  always  easy  to  please.  In  her  youth 
she  had  traveled  with  Crusaders  and  known  the  strange  cities 
of  the  East;  she  had  escaped  once  from  a  castle  by  night,  in 
a  boat,  to  free  herself  from  a  too-persistent  suitor.  She  was 
not  one  of  the  meek  ladies  who  spent  their  days  in  needle- 
work, and  as  for  spinning  and  weaving,  she  had  asked  scorn- 
fully if  they  would  have  her  weave  herself  a  hair  shirt  like 
a  hermit.  Mary  Lavender  was  not,  of  course,  a  maid  of 
honor,  but  she  found  that  the  Queen  seemed  rather  to  like 
having  her  about. 

"I  wish  I  had  your  secret,  Marie  of  the  Flowers,"  said 
graceful  Philippa,  one  weary  day.  "Tell  me  what  you  do, 
that  our  Lady  the  Queen  likes  so  well." 

Mary  smiled  in  her  frank,  fearless  way.  "It  may  be,"  she 
answered,  "that  it  is  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers.  She  de- 
sires now  to  embroider  red  roses  for  a  cushion,  and  I  have  to 
ask  Master  Tomaso  how  to  dye  the  thread." 

The  embroidering  of  red  roses  became  popular  at  once,  but 


THE  LOZENGES  OF  GIOVANNI  151 

soon  there  was  a  new  trouble.  The  Queen  began  to  find  fault 
with  her  food. 

"This  cook  flavors  all  his  dishes  alike,"  she  said  pettishly. 
"He  thinks  that  colored  toys  of  pastry  and  isinglass  feed  a 
man's  stomach.  When  the  King  comes  here — although  he 
never  knows  what  is  set  before  him,  that  is  true, — I  would 
like  well  to  have  a  fit  meal  for  his  gentlemen.  Tell  this  Beppo 
that  if  he  cannot  cook  plain  toothsome  dishes  I  will  send  for  a 
farmer's  wench  from  Longley  Farm." 

This  was  the  first  that  had  been  heard  of  the  King's  intended 
visit,  and  great  was  the  excitement  in  the  kitchen.  Ranulph 
dismounted  at  the  door  of  Dame  Lavender's  cottage  and  asked 
for  Giovanni.  Beppo  the  cook  had  been  calling  for  more  help, 
and  the  local  labor  market  furnished  nothing  that  suited 
him.  Would  Giovanni  come?  He  would  do  anything  for 
Ranulph  and  for  Mary. 

"That  is  settled,  then,"  laughed  Ranulph.  "I  shall  not 
have  to  scour  the  country  for  a  scullion  with  hands  about 
him  instead  of  hoofs  or  horns." 

In  his  fourteen  years  of  poverty  the  little  Italian  had 
learned  to  hold  his  tongue  and  keep  his  eyes  open.  Beppo 
was  glad  enough  to  have  a  helper  who  did  not  have  to  be 
told  anything  twice,  and  in  the  hurry-scurry  of  the  prepara- 
tions Giovanni  made  himself  useful  beyond  belief.  The  cakes, 
however,  did  not  suit  the  Queen.  Mary  came  looking  for 
Giovanni  in  the  kitchen-garden. 

"Vanni,"  she  said,  "will  you  make  some  of  your  lozenges 
for  the  banquet?  Beppo  says  you  may.  I  think  that  perhaps 
his  cakes  are  not  simple  enough,  and  I  know  that  the  King 
likes  plain  fare." 


152  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Giovanni  turned  rather  white.  "Very  well,  Mistress  Mary," 
he  answered. 

Giovanni's  lozenges  were  not  candies,  although  they  were 
diamond-shaped  like  the  lozenges  that  are  named  after  them. 
They  were  cakes  made  after  the  recipe  still  used  in  some 
Italian  bakeries.  He  pounded  six  ounces  of  almonds;  then  he 
weighed  eight  eggs  and  put  enough  pounded  sugar  in  the 
opposite  scale  to  balance  them;  then  he  took  out  the  eggs 
and  weighed  an  equal  amount  of  flour,  and  of  butter.  He 
melted  the  butter  in  a  little  silver  saucepan.  The  eggs  were 
not  beaten,  because  egg-beaters  had  not  been  invented;  they 
were  strained  through  a  sieve  from  a  height  into  a  bowl,  and 
thus  mixed  with  air.  Two  of  the  eggs  were  added  to  the 
pounded  almonds,  and  then  the  whole  was  mixed  with  a 
wooden  spoon  in  a  wooden  bowl.  The  paste  was  spread  on 
a  thin  copper  plate  and  baked  in  an  oven  built  into  the  stone 
wall  and  heated  by  a  fireplace  underneath.  While  still  warm 
the  cake  was  cut  into  diamond-shaped  pieces,  called  lozenges 
after  the  carved  stone  memorial  tablets  in  cathedrals.  The 
Queen  approved  them,  and  said  that  she  would  have  those 
cakes  and  none  other  for  the  banquet,  but  with  a  little  more 
spice.  Beppo,  who  had  paid  the  sweetmeats  a  grudging  com- 
pliment, produced  some  ground  spice  from  his  private  stores 
and  told  Giovanni  to  use  that. 

"Vanni,"  said  Mary  laughing  as  she  passed  through  the 
kitchen  on  the  morning  of  the  great  day,  "do  you  always  scour 
your  dishes  as  carefully  as  this?"  The  boy  looked  up  from 
the  copper  plate  which  he  was  polishing.  Mary  thought  he 
looked  rather  somber  for  a  cook  who  had  just  been  promoted 
to  the  office  of  baker  to  the  King. 


THE  LOZENGES  OF  GIOVANNI  153 

"Things  cannot  be  too  clean,"  he  said  briefly.  "Mistress 
Mary,  will  you  ask  Master  Tomaso  for  some  of  the  spice  that 
he  gave  to  your  mother,  for  me*?" 

Mary's  blue  eyes  opened.  Surely  a  court  cook  like  Beppo 
ought  to  have  all  the  spice  needed  for  a  simple  cake  like  this. 
However,  she  brought  Giovanni  a  packet  of  the  fragrant  stuff 
an  hour  later,  and  found  Beppo  fuming  because  the  work 
was  delayed.  The  basket  of  selected  eggs  had  been  broken, 
the  melted  butter  had  been  spilled,  and  the  cakes  were  not  yet 
ready  for  the  oven.  Giovanni  silently  and  deftly  finished 
beating  his  pastry,  added  the  spice,  rolled  out  the  dough, 
began  the  baking.  When  the  cakes  came  out  of  the  oven, 
done  to  a  turn,  and  with  a  most  alluring  smell,  he  stood  over 
them  as  they  cooled  and  packed  them  carefully  with  his  own 
hands  into  a  basket.  Mary  Lavender  came  through  the  kitchen 
just  as  the  last  layer  was  put  in. 

"Those  are  beautiful  cakes,  Vanni,"  she  said  kindly.  "I 
am  sure  they  are  fit  for  the  King.  Did  you  use  the  spice  I  gave 
you?" 

Giovanni's  heart  gave  a  thump.  He  had  not  reckoned  on 
the  fact  that  simple  Mary  had  grown  up  where  there  was  no 
need  of  hiding  a  plain  truth,  and  now  Beppo  would  know. 
The  cook  turned  on  him. 

"What"?  What?"  he  cried.  "You  did  not  use  my  spices*? 
You  take  them  and  do  not  use  them?" 

Mary  began  to  feel  frightened.  The  cook's  black  eyes  were 
flashing  and  his  mustache  bristling  with  excitement,  until  he 
looked  like  the  cross  cat  on  the  border  of  the  Queen's  book 
of  fables.    But  Giovanni  was  standing  his  ground. 

"I  used  good  spice,"  he  said  firmly.     "Try  and  see." 


154  IN  THE  DAYS  Oh  IHE  GUILD 

He  held  out  one  ot  the  cakes  to  Beppo,  who  dashed  it  furi- 
ously to  the  ground. 

"Where  are  my  spices'?"  he  shrieked.  "You  meant  to  steal 
them^"  He  dashed  at  the  lad  and  seized  him  as  if  to  search 
for  the  spices.  Giovanni  shook  in  his  grasp  like  a  rat  in  the 
jaws  of  a  terrier,  but  he  did  not  cringe. 

"I  sent  that  packet  of  spice  to  Master  Tomaso  an  hour 
ago,"  he  gasped  defiantly,  "asking  him  if  it  was  wholesome  to 
use  in  the  kitchen — and  here  he  is  now." 

At  sight  of  the  old  ph)sician  standing  calm  as  a  judge  in 
the  doorway,  Beppo  bolted  through  the  other  door,  seized  a 
horse  that  stood  in  the  courtyard  and  was  gone  before  the 
astonished  servants  got  their  breath. 

"What  is  all  this?"  inquired  Tomaso.  "I  came  to  warn 
that  man  that  the  packet  of  spice  which  you  sent  is  poison. 
Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"The  cook  bought  it  of  a  peddler  and  gave  it  to  Vanni," 
answered  Mary,  scared  but  truthful.  "You  all  heard  him 
say  that  he  did,"  she  added  to  the  bystanders.  "He  told 
Vanni  to  use  it  in  these  cakes,  but  Vanni  used  the  spice  you 
gave  us." 

"I  have  seen  that  peddler  before,"  gasped  Giovanni.  "He 
tried  to  bribe  me  to  take  the  Queen  a  letter  and  a  packet,  and 
1  would  not.  I  put  some  of  the  spice  in  honey,  and  the  flies 
that  ate  of  it  died.     Then  I  sent  it  to  you." 

"It  was  a  subtle  device,"  said  Tomaso  slowly.  "The  spice 
would  disguise  the  flavor.  Every  one  knew  that  Giovanni  was 
to  make  the  cakes,  and  that  the  Queen  will  not  come  to  the 
banquet.  W^hen  it  is  served  do  you  send  each  sauce  to  me 
for  testing.    We  will  have  no  poison  in  the  King's  dish." 


THE  LOZENGES  OF  GIOVANNI 


155 


The  plot,  as  Tomaso  guessed,  had  not  been  born  of  the 
jealousy  of  a  cook,  but  of  subtler  brains  beyond  the  seas. 
The  Queen  might  well  have  been  held  responsible  if  the  poison 
had  worked.     But  when  she  heard  of  it  she  wept. 

"I  have  not  been  loyal,"  she  flung  out,  in  tearful  defiance, 
"but  I  would  not  have  done  that — never  that!" 


A   SONG   OF   BIRDS   AND   BEASTS 

I  gaed  awa'  to  Holyrood  and  there  I  built  a  kirk, 
And  a'  the  birds  of  a'  the  air  they  helpit  me  to  work. 
The  whaup  wi'  her  lang  bill  she  dug  up  the  stane, 
The  dove  wi'  her  short  bill  she  brought  it  hame. 
The  pyet  was  a  wily  bird  and  raised  up  the  wa', 
The  corby  was  a  silly  bird  and   she  gar'd   it   fa', 
And  bye  cam'  auld  Tod  Lowrie  and  skelpit  them  a'! 

I  gaed  and  I  gaed  and  I  cam'  to  London  town, 

And  a'  the  beasts  of  a'  the  earth  were  met  to  pull  it  down. 

The  cock  wi'  his  loud  voice  he  raised  a  fearfu'  din, 

The  dragon  he  was  dumb,  but  he  creepit  slyly  in. 

The  ramping  tramping  unicorn  he  clattered  at  the  wa', 

The  bear  he  growled  and  grumbled  and  scrabbled  wi'  his  claw. 

Till  bye  cam'  auld  Tod  Lowrie  and  dang  them  a' ! 

The  leopard  and  the  wolf  they  were  fechtln'  tooth  and  nail, 

The  bear  wad  be  a  lion  but  he  couldna  raise  a  tail. 

The  geese  they  heard  the  brattle  and  yammered  loud  and  lang, 

The  corby  flyin'  owre  them  he  made  his  ain  sang. 

The  lion  chased  the  unicorn  by  holt  and  by  glen, 

Tod  Lowrie  met  the  hounds  and  he  bade  them  come  ben — 

But  the  auld  red  rascal  had  twa  holes  tae  his  den ! 

The  wolf  lap  in  the  fold  and  made  havoc  wi'  the  flock. 
The  corby  cleaned  the  banes  in  his  howf  on  the  rock, 
The  weasel  sacked  the  warren  but  he  couldna  grow  fat, 


The  cattie  met  a  pullet  and  they  never  found  that. 
They  made  a  wicker  boothle  and  they  tethered  there  a  goose, 
And  owre  the  wee  bit  lintel  they  hung  a  braided   noose, — 
But  auld  Tod  I.owrie  he  sat  in  his  ain  hoose ! 

Note:  There  is  a  pun  in  the  third  verse,  as  "tail"  is  an  old  word  for  a 
retinue  or  following.  Albert  the  Bear  was  margrave  of  Brandenburg,  the 
leopard  was  the  emblem  of  Anjou,  and  the  wolf  in  medieval  fables  stands  for 
the  feudal  baron.  The  unicorn  was  the  legendary  beast  of  Scotland,  and  the 
dragon  that  of  Wales.  The  cock  stands  for  France.  Henry  II.  is  satirized  as 
the  bold  and  cunning  fox.  Tod  Lowrie.  The  allusion  to  the  trap  in  the  last 
three  lines  is  to  the  offer  of  the  throne  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire  to  the  English 
monarch,  during  a  time  of  general  international  hostility  and  disorder. 


XIII 
A  DYKE  IN  THE  DANELAW 

HOW   DAVID    LE    SAUMOND   CHANGED   THE    COURSE    OF   AN   AN- 
CIENT NUISANCE 

FARMER  APPLEBY  was  in  what  he  called  a  fidget. 
He  did  not  look  nervous,  and  was  not.  But  the  word, 
along  with  several  others  he  sometimes  used,  had  come 
down  to  him  from  Scandinavian  forefathers.  The  very 
name  with  its  ending  "by"  showed  that  his  farm  was  a  part 
of  the  Danelaw. 

Along  the  coast,  and  in  the  part  of  England  fronting  the 
North  Sea,  Danish  invaders  had  imposed  their  own  laws  and 
customs  on  the  country,  and  were  strong  enough  to  hold  their 
own  even  in  the  face  of  a  Saxon  King.  It  was  only  a  few 
years  since  the  Danegeld,  the  tax  collected  from  all  England 
to  ward  off  the  raids  of  Danish  sea-rovers,  had  been  abolished. 
But  Ralph  Appleby  was  as  good  an  Englishman  as  any. 

Little  by  little  the  Danelaw  was  yielding  to  the  common 
law  of  England,  but  that  did  not  worry  an  Appleby.  He 
did  not  trouble  the  law  courts,  nor  did  they  molest  him.  The 
cause  of  his  fidget  was  a  certain  law  of  nature  by  which  water 
seeks  the  shortest  way  down.  One  side  of  his  farm  lay  along 
the  river.  Like  most  of  the  Danish,  Norse,  Icelandic  or 
Swedish   colonists,  his   long-ago   ancestor  had   settled   on   a 

159 


i6o  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

little  river  in  a  marsh.  First  he  made  camp  on  an  island; 
then  he  built  a  house  on  the  higher  bank.  Then  the  channel 
on  the  near  side  of  the  island  filled  up,  and  he  planted  the 
rich  soil  that  the  river  had  brought  with  orchards,  and  pas- 
tured fat  cattle  in  the  meadows.  Three  hundred  years  later 
the  Applebys  owned  one  of  the  most  prosperous  farms  in  the 
neighborhood. 

Now  and  then,  however,  the  river  remembered  that  it  had 
a  claim  on  that  land.  The  soil,  all  bound  and  matted  with 
tough  tree-roots  and  quitch-grass,  could  not  be  washed  away, 
but  the  waters  took  their  toll  in  produce.  The  year  before 
the  orchards  had  been  flooded  and  two-thirds  of  the  crop 
floated  off.  A  day  or  two  later,  when  the  flood  subsided,  the 
apples  were  left  to  fatten  Farmer  Kettering's  hogs,  rooting 
about  on  the  next  farm.  Hob  Kettering's  stubborn  little 
Saxon  face  was  all  a-grin  when  he  met  Barty  Appleby  and  told 
of  it.  It  speaks  well  for  the  friendship  of  the  two  boys  that 
there  was  not  a  fight  on  the  spot. 

That  was  not  all.  The  stone  dyke  between  the  river  and 
the  lowlands  had  been  undermined  by  the  tearing  current,  and 
must  be  rebuilt,  and  there  were  no  stone-masons  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. Each  farmer  did  his  own  repairing  as  well  as  he 
could.  The  houses  were  of  timber,  plaster,  some  brick  and 
a  little  rude  masonry.  There  were  not  enough  good  masons 
in  the  country  to  supply  the  demand,  and  even  in  building 
castles  and  cathedrals  the  stone  was  sometimes  brought,  ready 
cut,  from  France.  In  some  parts  of  England  the  people  used 
stone  from  old  Roman  walls,  or  built  on  old  foundations, 
but  in  Roman  times  this  farm  had  been  under  water  in  the 
marsh.    The  building  of  Lincoln  Cathedral  meant  a  procession 


A  DYKE  IN  THE  DANELAW  161 

of  stone-barges  going  up  the  river  loaded  with  stone  for  the 
walls,  quarried  in  Portland  or  in  France.  When  landed  it  was 
carried  up  the  steep  hill  to  the  site  of  the  building,  beyond 
reach  of  floods  that  might  sap  foundations.  It  was  slow  work 
building  cathedrals  in  marsh  lands. 

The  farmer  was  out  in  his  boat  now,  poling  up  and  down 
along  the  face  of  the  crumbling  wall,  trying  to  figure  on  the 
amount  of  stone  that  would  be  needed.  He  never  picked  a 
stone  out  of  his  fields  that  was  not  thrown  on  a  heap  for 
possible  wall-building,  but  most  of  them  were  small.  It 
would  take  several  loads  to  replace  what  the  river  had  stolen — - 
and  then  the  whole  thing  might  sink  into  the  mud  in  a  year 
or  two. 

"Hech,  master  I"  said  a  voice  overhead.  "Are  ye  wantin'  a 
stone-mason  just  now*?" 

Ralph  Appleby  looked  up.  On  the  little  bridge,  peering 
down,  was  a  freckled,  high-cheek-boned  man  with  eyes  as  blue 
as  his  own,  and  with  a  staff  in  one  big,  hard-muscled  hand. 
He  wore  a  rough,  shabby  cloak  of  ancient  fashion  and  had  a 
bundle  on  his  shoulder. 

"I  should  say  I  be,"  said  the  surprised  farmer.  "Be  you 
wanting  the  job?" 

The  stranger  was  evidently  a  Scot,  from  his  speech,  and 
Scots  were  not  popular  in  England  then.  Still,  if  he  could 
build  a  wall  he  was  worth  day's  wages.  "What's  yer  name?' 
Appleby  added. 

"Just  David,"  was  the  answer.  "I'm  frae  Dunedin. 
There's  muckle  stone  work  there." 

"I  make  my  guess  they've  better  stuff  for  building  than 
that  pile  o'  pebbles,"  muttered  the  farmer,  leaping  ashore  and 


i62  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

kicking  with  his  foot  the  heap  of  stone  on  the  bank,  "I've 
built  that  wall  over  again  three  times,  now." 

The  newcomer  grinned,  not  doubtfully  but  confidently,  as 
if  he  knew  exactly  what  the  trouble  was.  "We'll  mend  all 
tliat,"  he  said,  striding  down  to  peer  along  the  water-course. 
The   wriggling  stream    looked   harmless   enough   now. 

"You've  been  in  England  some  time'?"  queried  Appleby. 

"Aye,"  said  David.  "I  learned  my  trade  overseas  and 
then  I  came  to  the  Minster,  but  I  didna  stay  long.  Me  and 
the  master  mason  couldna  make  our  ideas  fit." 

Barty,  sorting  over  the  stones,  gazed  awestruck  at  the  stran- 
ger.    Such  independence  was  unheard-of. 

"What  seemed  to  be  the  hitch?"  asked  the  farmer  coolly. 

"He  was  too  fond  o'  making  rubble  serve  for  buildin' 
stone,"  said  David.  "Then  he'd  face  it  with  Portland  ashlars 
to  deceive  the  passer-by." 

"Ye'U  have  no  cause  to  worry  over  that  here,"  said  Ralph 
Appleby  dryly.  "I'm  not  using  ashlars  or  whatever  ye  call 
them.,  in  my  orchard  wall.    Good  masonry  will  do." 

"Ashlar  means  a  building  stone  cut  and  dressed,"  explained 
David.  "I  went  along  that  wall  of  yours  before  you  came. 
If  you  make  a  culvert  up  stream  with  a  stone-arched  bridge  in 
place  of  the  ford  yonder,  ye' 11  divert  the  course  of  the  waters 
from  your  land." 

"If  I  put  a  bridge  over  the  Wash,  I  could  make  a  weir  to 
catch  salmon,"  said  the  startled  farmer.  "I've  no  cut  stone 
for  arches." 

"We'll  use  good  mortar  and  plenty  of  it,  that's  all,"  said 
David.     "I'll  show  ye." 

The  things  that  David  accomplished  with  rubble,  or  mis- 


A  DYKE  IN  THE  DANELAW  163 

cellaneous  scrap-stone,  seemed  like  magic  to  Bart}-,  lie 
trotted  about  at  the  heels  of  the  mason,  got  very  tired  and  de- 
lightfully dirty,  asked  numberless  questions,  which  were  al- 
ways answered,  and  considered  David  the  most  interesting  man 
he  had  ever  met.  David  solved  the  building-stone  problem 
by  concocting  mortar  after  a  recipe  of  his  own  and  using  plenty 
of  it  between  selected  stones.  Sometimes  there  seemed  to  be 
almost  as  much  mortar  as  there  was  stone,  but  the  wedge- 
shaped  pieces  were  so  fitted  that  the  greater  the  pressure  on 
the  arch  the  firmer  it  would  be.  Laborers  were  set  to  work 
digging  a  channel  to  let  the  stream  through  this  gully  under 
the  arches,  and  it  seemed  glad  to  go. 

"When  I'm  a  man,  David,"  announced  Barty,  lying  over 
the  bridge-rail  on  his  stomach  and  looking  down  at  the  waters 
that  tore  through  the  new  channel,  "I  shall  be  a  mason  just 
like  you.     The  river  can't  get  our  apples  now,  can  it?" 

David  grinned.  "Water  never  runs  up  hill,"  he  said,  "And 
it  will  run  down  hill  if  it  takes  a  thousand  years.  You  learn 
that  first,  if  you  want  to  be  a  mason,  lad." 

"But  everybody  knows  that,"  Barty  protested. 

"Two  and  two  mak'  four,  but  if  you  and  me  had  twa 
aipples  each,  and  I  ate  one  o'  mine,  and  pit  the  ithcr  with 
yours  to  mak'  fower  and  you  didna  find  it  out  it  wad  be  a  sign 
ye  didna  know  numbers,"  retorted  David,  growing  more  and 
more  Scotch  as  he  explained.  "And  when  I  see  a  mason  hn 
twa-three  stones  to  twa-three  mair  and  fill  in  the  core  wi' 
rubble  I  ken  he  doesna  reckon  on  the  water  seeping  in." 

"But  you've  put  rubble  in  those  arches,  David,"  said  Barty, 
using  his  eyes  to  help  his  argument. 

"Spandrel,  spandrel,  ye  loon,"  grunted  David.     "Ye'll  no 


i64  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

learn  to  be  a  mason  if  ye  canna  mind  the  names  o'  things. 
The  space  between  the  arch  and  the  beam's  filled  wi'  rubble 
and  good  mortar,  but  the  weight  doesna  rest  on  that — it's 
mostly  on  the  arches  where  we  used  the  best  of  our  stanes. 
And  there's  no  great  travel  ower  the  brig  forbye.  It's  differ- 
ent with  a  cathedral  like  yon.  Ye  canna  build  siccan  a  mighty 
wall  wi'  mortar  alone.  The  water's  aye  searchin'  for  a  place 
to  enter.  When  the  rocks  freeze  under  the  foundations  they 
crumble  where  the  water  turns  to  ice  i'  the  seams.  When  the 
rains  come  the  water' 11  creep  in  if  we  dinna  make  a  place  for 
it  to  rin  awa'  doon  the  wa'.  That's  why  we  carve  the  little 
drip-channels  longways  of  the  arches,  ye  see.  A  wall's  no 
better  than  the  weakest  stane  in  it,  lad,  and  when  you've  built 
her  you  guard  her  day  and  night,  summer  and  winter,  frost, 
fire  and  flood,  if  you  want  her  to  last.  And  a  Minster  like 
York  or  Lincoln — the  sound  o'  the  hammer  about  her  walls 
winna  cease  till  Judgment  Day." 

Barty  looked  rather  solemnly  at  the  little,  solid,  stone- 
arched  bridge,  and  the  stone-walled  culvert.  While  it  was 
a-building  David  had  explained  that  if  the  stream  overflowed 
here  it  would  be  over  the  reedy  meadows  near  the  river, 
which  would  be  none  the  worse  for  a  soaking.  The  orchards 
and  farm  lands  were  safe.  The  work  that  they  had  done 
seemed  to  link  itself  in  the  boy's  mind  to  cathedral  towers  and 
fortress-castles  and  the  dykes  of  Flanders  of  which  David 
had  told. 

The  loose  stone  from  the  ruined  wall  was  used  to  finish  a 
wall  in  a  new  place,  across  the  corner  of  the  land  by  which 
the  river  still  flowed.  This  would  make  a  wharf  for  the 
boats. 


A  DYKE  IN  THE  DANELAW  165 

"This  mortar  o'  yours  might  ha'  balked  the  Elood  o'  Noah, 
belike,"  said  Farmer  Appleby,  when  they  were  mixing  the 
last  lot. 

"I  wasna  there,  and  I  canna  say,"  said  David.  "But  there's 
a  way  to  lay  the  stones  that's  worth  knowing  for  a  job  like 
this.     Let's  see  if  ye  ken  your  lesson,  young  chap." 

David's  amusement  at  Barty's  intense  interest  in  the  work 
had  changed  to  genuine  liking.  The  boy  showed  a  judgment 
in  what  he  did,  which  pleased  the  mason.  He  had  always 
built  walls  and  dams  with  the  stones  he  gathered  when  his 
father  set  him  at  work.  His  favorite  playground  was  the 
stone-heap.  Now  he  laid  selected  stones  so  deftly  and  skillfully 
that  the  tiny  wall  he  was  raising  was  almost  as  firm  as  if 
mortar  had  been  used. 

"You  lay  the  stones  in  layers  or  courses,"  he  explained, 
"the  stretcher  stones  go  lengthwise  of  the  wall  and  the  head- 
stones with  the  end  on  the  face  of  the  wall,  and  you  lay  first 
one  and  then  the  other,  'cordin'  as  you  want  them.  When 
the  big  stones  and  the  little  ones  are  fitted  so  that  the  top 
of  the  layer  is  pretty  level  it's  coursed  rubble,  and  that's  better 
than  just  building  anyhow." 

"WTiat  wey  is  it  better?"  interposed  David. 

Barty  pondered.  "It  looks  better  anyhow.  And  then,  if 
you  want  to  put  cut  stone,  or  beams,  on  top,  you're  all  ready. 
Besides,  it  takes  some  practice  to  lay  a  wall  that  way,  and 
you  might  as  well  be  practicing  all  you  can." 

The  two  men  chuckled.  A  part  of  this,  of  course,  Faniier 
Appleby  already  knew,  but  he  had  never  explained  to  Barty. 

The  boy  went  on.  "The  stones  ought  to  be  fitted  so  that 
the  face  of  the  wall  is  laid  to  a  true  line.     If  you  slope  it  a 


i66  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

little  it's  stronger,  because  that  makes  it  wider  at  the  bottom. 
But  if  you  slope  it  too  much  the  water  won't  run  off  and  the 
snow  will  lie.  If  you've  got  any  big  stones  put  them  where 
they  will  do  the  most  good,  'cause  you  want  the  wall  to  be 
strong  everywhere.  A  bigger  stone  that  is  pretty  square,  like 
this,  can  be  a  bond  stone,  and  if  you  use  one  here  and  there  it 
holds  the  wall  together.  David  says  the  English  gener'Uy 
build  a  stone  wall  with  a  row  of  headers  and  then  a  row  of 
stretchers,  but  in  Flanders  they  lay  a  header  and  then  a 
stretcher  in  every  row." 

"How  many  loads  of  stone  will  it  take  for  this  wall?"  asked 
David.  Barty  hesitated,  measured  with  his  eye,  and  then 
made  a  guess.  "How  much  mortar?"  He  guessed  again. 
The  estimate  was  so  near  Farmer  Appleby's  own  figures  that 
he  was  betrayed  into  a  whistle  of  surprise. 

"He's  gey  canny  for  a  lad,"  said  David,  grinning.  "He's 
near  as  wise  as  me.    We've  been  at  that  game  for  a  month." 

"Never  lat  on,  but  aye  lat  owre, 
Twa  and  twa  they  aye  mak'  fowre." 

Barty  quoted  a  rhyme  from  David, 

"I  reckon  you've  earned  over  and  above  your  pay,"  said 
Farmer  Appleby.  He  foresaw  the  usefulness  of  all  this  lore 
when  Barty  was  a  little  older.  The  boy  could  direct  a  gang 
of  heavy-handed  laborers  nearly  as  well  as  he  could. 

"Any  mason  that's  worth  his  salt  will  dae  that,"  said  David, 
unconcernedly. 

Barty  was  experimenting  with  his  stone-laying  when  a 
hunting-party  of  strangers  came  down  the  bridle-path  from 
the  fens,  where  they  had  been  hawking  for  a  day.    The  fame 


A  DYKE  IN  THE  DANELAW  167 

of  the  Appleby  culvert  had  spread  through  the  country,  and 
people  often  came  to  look  at  it,  so  that  no  one  was  surprised. 
The  leader  of  the  group  was  a  middle-aged  stout  man,  with 
close-clipped  reddish  hair,  a  full  curly  beard  and  a  masterful 
way  of  speaking;  he  had  a  bow  in  his  hand,  and  paced  to  and 
fro  restlessly  even  when  he  was  talking. 

"Who  taught  you  to  build  walls,  my  boy^"  asked  a  young 
man  with  bright  dark  eyes  and  a  citole  over  his  shoulder. 

"David,"  said  Barty.  "He's  a  Scot.  When  he  was  in 
France  they  called  him  David  Saumond  because  of  his  leaping. 
He  can  dance  fine." 

"And  who  taught  David?"  inquired  the  stranger. 

"The  birds,"  Barty  answered  with  a  grin.  "There's  a 
song." 

"Let's  have  it,"  laughed  the  minstrel,  and  Barty  sang. 

"I  gaed  awa'  to  Holyrood,  and  there  I  bug  a  kirk, 
And  a'  the  birds  o'  a'  the  air  they  helpit  me  to  work. 
The  whaup  wi'  her  lang  bill  she  pried  out  the  stane, 
The  dove  wi'  her  short  bill  she  brought  them  hame, 
The  pyet  was  a  wily  bird  and  bug  up  the  wa', 
The  corby  was  a  silly  bird  and  pu'd  it  down  ava, 
And  then  cam'  auld  Tod  Lowrie  and  skelpit  them  a'." 

"What's  all  that,  Ranulph?"  queried  the  masterful  man, 
pausing  in  his  walk.  Ranulph  translated,  with  a  mischievous 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  for  there  was  more  in  the  song  than  Barty 
knew.  Each  of  the  birds  stood  for  one  or  another  of  the 
Scotch  lords  who  had  figured  in  the  recent  trouble  between 
William  of  Scotland  and  the  English  King,  and  Tod  Lowrie 
is  the  popular  Scotch  name  for  the  red  fox.    It  is  not  every 


i68  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

king  who  cares  to  hear  himself  called  a  fox  to  his  face,  even  if 
he  behaves  like  one.  David  and  Farmer  Appleby,  coming 
through   the  orchard,   were  rather  aghast. 

As  they  came  to  a  halt,  and  made  proper  obeisance  to  their 
superiors,  the  King  addressed  David  in  Norman  such  as  the 
common  folk  used. 

"So  you  hold  it  folly  to  pull  down  a  wall*?  There's  not 
one  stone  left  on  another  in  Milan  since  Frederick  Barbarossa 
took  the  city," 

"Ou  ay,"  said  David  coolly.  "If  he  had  to  build  it  up  again 
he'd  no  be  so  blate,  I'm  thinkin'." 

The  King  laughed  and  so  did  the  others.  "I  wish  I  had 
had  you  seven  years  ago,"  he  said,  "when  we  dyked  the  Loire. 
There  were  thirty  miles  of  river  bank  at  Angers,  flooded  season 
after  season,  when  a  well-built  river  wall  would  have  saved 
the  ruin.  A  man  that  can  handle  rubble  in  a  marsh  like  this 
ought  to  be  doing  something  better." 

"I  learned  my  trade  on  that  dyke,"  said  David.  "They 
Norman  priors  havena  all  learned  theirs  yet.  I  was  at  the 
Minster  yonder,  and  if  Td  built  my  piers  like  they  said,  the 
water  would  ha'  creepit  under  in  ten  years'  time." 

"And  in  ten  years,  that  Prior  hopes  to  be  Archbishop  without 
doubt,"  said  the  King  with  a  shrug.     "Was  that  all?" 

"Nay,"  said  David.  "Their  ashlars  are  set  up  for  vanity 
and  to  be  seen  o'  men.  Ye  must  have  regard  to  the  disposition 
of  the  building-stone  when  ye  build  for  good  an'  all.  It 
doesna  like  to  be  stood  up  just  anyhow.  Let  it  lie  as  it  lay  in 
the  quarr}^,  and  it's  content." 

Barty  was  watching  the  group,  his  blue  eyes  blazing  and 
the  apple-red  color  flushing  his  round  cheeks.     The  King 


Ill       '>h!  '),   T> 


/2.  ,ffC'  -^  f • 


IT   IS   TIME    TO    SET    HIM    BUILDING    FOR    ENGLAND 


170  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

was  talking  to  David  as  if  he  were  pleased,  and  David, 
though  properly  respectful,  was  not  in  the  least  afraid.  The 
Plantagenets  were  a  race  of  building  Kings.  They  all  knew 
a  master  mason  when  they  saw  him. 

"So  you  changed  the  ancient  course  of  the  flood  into  that 
culvert,  did  you^"  the  King  inquired,  with  a  glance  at  the 
new  channel. 

"Aye,"  said  David.  "No  man  can  rule  the  watters  of  the 
heavens,  and  it's  better  to  dyke  a  flood  than  to  dam  it,  if  ye 
can."  The  King,  with  a  short  laugh,  borrowed  tablet  and 
ink-horn  from  his  scribe  and  made  a  note  or  two. 

"When  I  find  a  Scotch  mason  with  an  English  apprentice 
building  Norman  arches  in  the  Danelaw,"  said  Henry,  "it  is 
time  to  set  him  building  for  England.  I  hear  that  William, 
whom  they  call  the  Englishman,  is  at  work  in  Canterbury. 
When  you  want  work  you  may  give  him  this,  and  by  the 
sight  of  God  have  a  care  that  there  is  peace  among  the 
building-stones." 

David  must  have  done  so,  for  on  one  of  the  stones  in  a 
world-famed  cathedral  may  be  seen  the  mason's  mark  of 
David  le  Saumond  and  the  fish  which  is  his  token. 


LONDON  BRIDGE  (1066) 

It  was  almost  an  hundred  years  ago. 

When  Ethel  red  was  King.     This  town  of  London 

Was  held  by  Danes.     Olaf  the  King  of  Norway 

Came  with  his  host  to  fight  for  Ethelred 

And  with  his  galleys  rowed  beneath  the  bridge, 

Lashed  cables  round  the  piers,  and  caught  the  tide 

That  lent  the  strength  of  Ocean  to  their  strength 

Rowing  down-stream.    Ah,  how  the  strong  oars  beat 

The  waters  into  foam — and  how  the  Danes 

Above   upon   the   bridge   fought   furiously 

With  stones  and  arrows — but  the  bridge  went  down — 

The  bridge  went  down.     So  Ethelred  was  King. 

And  now  the  bridge  has  been  built  up  again. 

'Tis  not  a  thing  of  timbers,  or  hewn  stone ; 

It  is  a  weaving  of  men's  hopes  and  dreams 

From  shore  to  shore.     It  is  a  thing  alive. 

The  men  of  Surrey  and  the  men  of  Kent, 

The  men  of  Sussex  and  Northumberland, 

The  shepherds  of  the  downs,  the  Wealden  forges. 

Fishermen,  packmen,  bargemen,  masons,  all 

The  traffickers  of  England,  made  our  bridge. 

It  is  a  thing  enchanted  by  the  thoughts 

Of  all  our  people. 


XIV 
AT  BARTLEMY  FAIR 

HOW  BARTY  APPLEBY  WENT  TO  THE  FAIR  AT  SMITHFIELD  AND 
CAUGHT  A  MISCREANT 

THE  farmer's  life  is  a  very  varied  one,  as  any  one  who 
ever  lived  on  a  farm  is  aware.  In  some  seasons  the 
work  is  so  pressing  that  the  people  hardly  stop  to  eat 
or  sleep.  At  other  times  Nature  herself  takes  a  hand, 
and  the  farmer  has  a  chance  to  mend  walls,  make  and  repair 
harness,  clear  woodland  and  do  some  hedging  and  ditching 
while  the  land  is  getting  ready  for  the  next  harvest.  This  at 
any  rate  was  the  way  in  medieval  England,  and  the  latter 
part  of  August  between  haying  and  harvest  was  a  holiday  time. 
Barty  Appleby  liked  Saint  Bartholomew's  Day,  the  twenty- 
fourth  of  August,  best  of  all  the  holidays  of  the  year.  It 
was  the  feast  of  his  name-saint,  when  a  cake  was  baked  espe- 
cially for  him.  Yule-tide  was  a  merry  season,  but  to  have  a 
holiday  of  one's  very  own  was  even  pleasanter. 

On  the  day  that  he  was  twelve  years  old  Barty  was  to 
have  a  treat  which  all  the  boys  envied  him.  He  was  to  go  to 
Bartlemy  Fair  at  Smithfield  by  London.  David  Saumond, 
the  stone-mason  who  had  built  their  orchard-wall,  was  going 
beyond  London  to  Canterbury  to  work  at  the  cathedral. 
Farmer  Appleby  had  a  sister  living  in  London,  whom  he  had 

173 


174  I^'  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

not  seen  for  many  years,  and  by  this  and  b}^  that  he  decided 
to  go  with  David  as  far  as  London  Bridge. 

The  Fairs  held  on  one  and  another  holiday  during  the  year 
were  great  markets  for  Old  England.  Nearly  all  of  them 
M'ere  called  after  some  Saint.  It  might  be  because  the  saint 
was  a  patron  of  the  guild  or  industry  which  made  the  fair 
prosperous;  Saint  Blaize  was  the  patron  of  the  wool-combers, 
Saint  Elo}-  of  the  goldsmiths,  and  so  on.  It  was  often  simply 
a  means  of  making  known  the  date.  People  might  not  know 
when  the  twenty-ninth  of  September  came,  if  they  could  not 
read;  but  they  were  very  likely  to  know  how  long  it  was  to 
Saint  Michael's  Day,  or  Michaelmas,  because  the  quarter's 
rent  was  due  at  that  time.  June  24,  the  Feast  of  Saint  John 
the  Baptist,  was  Midsummer  Quarter  Day,  and  in  every  month 
there  were  several  saints'  days  which  one  or  another  person 
in  any  neighborhood  had  good  cause  for  remembering. 

St.  Bartholomew's  Fair  at  London  was  one  of  the  greatest 
of  all,  and  its  name  came  about  in  an  interesting  way.  Barty 
knew  the  story  by  heart.  The  founder  was  Rahere,  the  jester 
of  Henry  I.  While  on  pilgrimage  to  Rome  he  had  fallen  ill 
in  a  little  town  outside  the  city,  and  being  near  death  had 
prayed  to  Saint  Bartholomew,  who  was  said  to  have  been  a 
physician,  for  help.  The  saint,  so  the  legend  goes,  appeared  to 
him  in  a  vision  and  told  him  to  found  a  church  and  a  hospital. 
He  was  to  have  no  misgiving,  but  go  forward  with  the  work 
and  the  way  would  be  made  clear.  Coming  back  to  England 
he  told  the  story  to  the  King,  who  gave  him  land  in  a  waste 
marshy  place  called  Smoothfield,  outside  London,  where  the 
wall  turned  inward  in  a  great  angle.  He  got  the  foundations 
laid  by  gathering  beggars,  children  and  half-witted  wanderers 


AT  BARTLEMY  FAIR  175 

about  him  and  making  a  jest  of  the  hard  work.  The  fields 
were  like  the  kind  of  place  where  a  circus-tent  is  pitched  now. 
Horses  and  cattle  were  brought  there  to  market,  as  it  was 
convenient  both  to  the  roads  outside  and  the  gates  of  the  city. 
The  church  walls  rose  little  by  little,  as  the  King  and  others 
became  interested  in  the  work,  and  in  course  of  time  Rahere 
gathered  a  company  of  Augustines  there  and  became  prior  of 
the  monastery.  The  hospital  built  and  tended  by  these  monks 
was  the  first  in  London.  In  1 133  Rahere  persuaded  the  King 
to  give  him  a  charter  for  a  three  days'  Fair  of  Saint  Bartholo- 
mew in  the  last  week  of  August,  and  tradition  says  that  he 
used  sometimes  to  go  out  and  entertain  the  crowds  with  jests 
and  songs.  Rahere's  Norman  arches  are  still  to  be  seen  in 
Saint  Bartholomew's  Church  in  London,  close  by  the  street 
that  is  called  the  Cloth  Fair. 

The  Fair  grew  and  prospered,  for  it  had  everything  in  its 
favor.  It  came  at  a  time  of  year  when  traveling  was  good, 
it  was  near  the  horse-market,  which  every  farmer  would  want 
to  visit,  it  was  near  London  on  the  other  hand,  so  that  mer- 
chants English  and  foreign  could  come  out  to  sell  their  goods, 
and  it  had  close  by  the  church  and  the  hospital,  which  received 
tolls,  or  a  percentage  as  it  would  be  called  to-day,  on  the 
profits. 

Barty  had  heard  of  the  Fair  ever  since  he  could  remember, 
for  almost  every  year  some  one  in  the  neighborhood  went. 
Very  early  in  the  morning  the  little  party  set  forth,  and  Barty 
kissed  his  mother  and  the  younger  ones  good-by,  feeling  very 
important.  He  rode  behind  David,  and  two  serving  men 
came  with  them  to  take  care  of  the  horses  and  luggage.    Farmer 


176  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Appleby  was  taking  two  fine  young  horses  to  market,  and 
some  apples  and  other  oddments  to  his  sister  Olive. 

They  trotted  along  the  narrow  lane  at  a  brisk  pace  and  pres- 
ently reached  the  high  road.  After  that  there  was  much  to 
see.     All  sorts  of  folk  were  wending  to  the  Fair. 

The  fairs,  all  over  England,  were  the  goal  of  foreign  traders 
and  small  merchants  of  every  kind,  who  could  not  afford  to 
set  up  shop  in  a  town.  In  many  cases  the  tolls  of  the  Fair 
went  to  the  King,  to  some  Abbey,  or  to  one  of  the  Guilds. 
The  law  frequently  obliged  the  merchants  in  the  neighboring 
town  or  city  to  close  their  shops  while  the  Fair  lasted.  The 
townsfolk  made  holiday,  or  profited  from  the  more  substantial 
customers  who  came  early  and  stayed  late  with  friends. 

Barty  heard  his  father  and  David  discussing  these  and 
other  laws  as  they  rode.  For  David,  as  a  stranger  in  the 
country,  all  such  matters  were  of  interest,  although  a  member 
of  the  Masons'  Guild  could  travel  almost  anywhere  in  the 
days  of  constant  building.  No  stranger  might  remain  in  Lon- 
don more  than  one  night.  The  first  night  he  stayed  in  any 
man's  house  he  might  be  regarded  as  a  stranger,  but  if  he 
stayed  a  second  night  he  was  considered  the  guest  of  the  house- 
holder, and  after  that  he  was  to  be  held  a  member  of  the  house- 
hold, for  whom  his  host  was  responsible.  Wandering  trades- 
men would  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it  without  the  Fairs.  On 
a  pinch,  a  traveling  merchant  who  sold  goods  at  a  fair  could 
sleep  in  his  booth  or  in  the  open  air. 

The  law  did  not  affect  the  Appleby  party.  Barty's  Aunt 
Olive  was  married  to  Swan  Petersen,  a  whitesmith  or  worker  in 
tin,  and  she  lived  outside  the  wall,  close  to  the  church  of  Saint 


AT  BARTLEMY  FAIR  177 

Clement  of  the  Danes.  When  they  reached  London  they 
would  lodge  under  her  roof. 

They  stayed  at  an  inn  the  first  night  on  the  road,  and 
slept  on  the  floor  wrapped  in  their  good  woolen  cloaks,  for 
the  place  was  crowded.  During  the  hour  after  supper  Barty, 
perched  on  a  barrel  in  the  court-yard,  saw  jongleurs  and 
dancers,  with  bells  on  head  and  neck  and  heels,  capering  in  the 
flare  of  the  torches.  He  heard  a  minstrel  sing  a  long  ballad 
telling  the  story  of  Havelok  the  Dane,  which  his  mother  had 
told  him.  His  father  and  David  gave  each  a  penny  to  these 
entertainers,  and  Barty  felt  as  content  as  any  boy  would,  on 
the  way  to  London  with  money  in  his  pocket  for  fairings. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  next  day  the  crowd  was  so  dense 
that  they  had  to  ride  at  a  snail's  pace  in  dust  and  turmoil,  and 
Barty  grew  so  tired  that  he  nearly  tumbled  off.  David,  with 
a  chuckle,  lifted  the  boy  around  in  front  of  him,  and  when 
they  reached  London  after  the  closing  of  the  gates,  and  turned 
to  the  right  toward  the  little  village  founded  by  the  Danes, 
they  had  to  shake  Barty  awake  at  Swan  Petersen's  door. 

Aunt  Olive,  a  trim,  fresh-faced,  flaxen-haired  woman, 
laughed  heartily  as  the  sleepy  boy  stumbled  in. 

"How  late  you  are,  brother!"  she  said.  "And  this  is  David 
Saumond,  by  whom  you  sent  a  message  last  year.  Well,  it 
is  good  to  see  you.     And  how  are  they  all  at  home?" 

Barty  was  awake  next  morning  almost  as  soon  as  the  pigeons 
were,  and  peering  out  of  the  window  he  saw  David,  already 
out  and  surveying  the  street.  The  boy  tumbled  into  his 
clothes  and  down  the  stairs,  and  went  with  David  to  look 
about  while  Farmer  Appleby  and  his  sister  told  the  news 
and  unpacked  the  good  things  from  the  country. 


lyS  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

The  Fleet  River  was  crowded  with  ships  of  the  lesser  sort, 
and  the  Thames  itself  was  more  than  twice  as  broad  as  it  is 
to-day.  Barty  wanted  to  see  London  Bridge  at  once,  but 
that  was  some  distance  away,  imd  so  was  London  Tower. 
The  tangle  of  little  lanes  around  the  Convent  Garden  was 
full  of  braying  donkeys,  bawling  drivers,  cackling  poultry  and 
contusion.  In  Fair-time  there  was  a  general  briskening  of  all 
trade  for  miles  around.  At  Charing  village  David  hailed  a 
boatman,  and  all  among  the  swans  and  other  water-fowl,  the 
barges  and  sailing  craft,  they  went  down  to  London  Bridge. 

Barty  had  asked  any  number  of  questions  about  this  bridge 
when  David  returned  from  London  the  previous  year,  but 
as  often  happens,  the  picture  he  had  formed  in  his  mind  was 
not  at  all  like  the  real  thing.  It  was  a  wooden  bridge,  but  the 
beginnings  of  stone  piers  could  be  seen. 

"They've  put  Peter  de  Colechurch  at  that  job,"  said  David. 
"He  has  a  vision  of  a  brig  o'  stanes,  and  swears  it  shall  come 
true." 

"Do  you  think  it  will?"  asked  Barty  soberly.  The  vast 
river  as  he  looked  to  right  and  left  seemed  a  mighty  creature 
for  one  man  to  yoke. 

"Not  in  his  time,  happen,  but  some  day  it  will,"  David 
answered  as  they  shot  under  the  middle  arch.  "And  yon's 
the  Tower  I" 

Barty  felt  as  if  he  had  seen  enough  for  the  day  already 
as  he  gazed  up  at  the  great  square  keep  among  the  lesser 
buildings,  jutting  out  into  the  river  as  if  to  challenge  all 
comers.  However,  there  was  never  a  boy  who  could  not  go 
on  sight-seeing  forever.     By  the  time  they  had  returned  to 


AT  BARTLEMY  FAIR  179 

Fleet  Street  he  had  tucked  away  the  Tower  and  London 
Bridge  in  his  mind  and  was  ready  for  the  Fair. 

The  Fair  was  a  city  of  booths,  of  tents,  of  sheds  and  of 
awnings.  Bunyan  described  the  like  in  Vanity  Fair.  Cloth- 
sellers  from  Cambrai,  Paris,  Ypres,  Arras  and  other  towns 
where  weavers  dwelt,  had  a  street  to  themselves,  and  so  did 
the  jewelers.  The  jewelry  was  made  more  for  show  than 
worth,  and  there  were  gay  cords  for  lacing  bodices  or  shoes, 
and  necklaces  that  were  called  "tawdrey  chains"  from  the 
fair  of  St.  Etheldreda  or  Saint  Audrey,  where  they  were  first 
sold.  There  were  glass  beads  and  perfume-bottles  from  Ven- 
ice; there  were  linens  of  Damietta,  brocaded  stuff  from  Da- 
mascus, veils  and  scarfs  from  Moussoul — or  so  they  were  said 
to  be.  Shoes  of  Cordovan  leather  were  there  also,  spices,  and 
sweetmeats,  herbs  and  cakes. 

Old-fashioned  people  call  machine-sawed  wooden  borders 
on  porches  "gingerbread  work."  The  gingerbread  sold  by  old 
Goody  Raby  looked  very  much  like  them.  She  had  ginger- 
bread horses,  and  men,  and  peacocks,  and  monke)^s,  ginger- 
bread churches  and  gingerbread  castles,  gingerbread  kings  and 
queens  and  saints  and  dragons  and  elephants,  although  the 
elephant  looked  rather  queer.  They  were  made  of  a  spicy 
yellow-brown  dough  rolled  into  thin  sheets,  cut  into  shapes, 
baked  hard  and  then  gilded  here  and  there.  The  king's  crown, 
the  peacock's  head  and  neck,  the  castle  on  the  elephant's 
back,  were  gilded.  Barty  bought  a  horse  for  himself  and  a 
small  menagerie  of  animals  for  the  younger  children  at  home. 

A  boy  not  much  older  than  himself  was  selling  perfume  in 
a  tiny  corner.  It  struck  Barty  that  here  might  be  something 
that  his  mother  would  like,  and  he  pulled  at  Aunt  Olive's 


i8o  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

slcfvc  and  asked  her  what  she  thought.  She  agreed  with  him, 
and  they  spent  some  pleasant  minutes  choosing  little  balls  of 
perfumed  wax,  which  could  be  carried  in  a  box  or  bag,  or  laid 
away  in  chests.  There  was  something  wholesome  and  refresh- 
ing about  the  scent,  and  Barty  could  not  make  up  his  mind 
what  flower  it  was  like.  The  boy  said  that  several  kinds  were 
used  in  the  making  of  each  perfume,  and  that  he  had  helped 
in  the  work.  He  said  that  his  name  was  "Vanni,"  which  Barty 
thought  a  very  queer  one,  but  this  name,  it  appeared,  was  the 
same  as  John  in  his  country.  Barty  himself  would  be  called 
there  Bartolomeo. 

Vanni  seemed  to  be  known  to  many  of  the  people  at  the 
fair.  A  tall,  brown  young  fellow  with  a  demure  dark-eyed 
girl  on  his  arm  stopped  and  asked  him  how  trade  was,  and  so 
did  a  young  man  in  foreign  dress  who  spoke  to  him  in  his 
own  language.  This  young  man  was  presently  addressed  as 
"Matteo,"  by  a  gayly  clad  troubadour,  and  Barty,  with  a 
jump,  recognized  the  young  man  who  had  been  with  the  King 
when  he  came  to  look  at  their  dyke.  One  of  the  reasons 
why  almost  everybody  came  to  Bartlemy  Fair  was  that  almost 
everybody  did.  It  was  a  place  where  people  who  seldom 
crossed  each  other's  path  were  likely  to  meet. 

"Has  Vanni  caught  anything  yet?"  the  troubadour  asked 
in  that  language  which  Barty  did  not  know. 

"Not  yet,"  the  other  answered,  "but  he  will.  Set  a  weasel 
to  catch  a  rat."     And  the  two  laughed  and  parted. 

But  it  was  Barty  who  really  caught  the  rat  they  were  talking 
about.  A  man  with  a  performing  bear  had  stopped  just  there 
and  a  crowd  had  gathered  about  him.  Barty  had  seen  that 
bear  the  night  before,  and  he  could  not  see  over  the  heads  of 


AT  BARTLEMY  FAIR  181 

the  men,  in  any  case.  A  stout  elderly  merchant  trying  to 
make  his  way  through  the  narrow  lanes,  fumed  and  fretted 
and  became  wedged  in.  Barty  saw  a  thin,  shabby-faced  fellow 
duck  under  a  big  drover's  arm,  cut  a  long  slit  in  the  stout  man's 
purse  that  hung  at  his  belt,  and  slip  through  the  crowd.  Just 
then  some  one  raised  a  cry  that  the  bear  was  loose,  and  every- 
thing was  confusion.  Barty's  wit  and  boldness  blocked  the 
thief's  game.  He  tripped  the  man  up  with  David's  staff,  and 
with  a  flying  jump,  landed  on  his  shoulders.  It  was  a  risky 
thing  to  do,  for  the  man  had  a  knife  and  could  use  it,  but 
Barty  was  the  best  wrestler  in  his  village,  and  a  minute  later 
David  had  nabbed  the  rascal  and  recovered  the  plunder. 

"Thank  ye,  my  lad,  thank  ye,"  said  the  merchant,  and  hur- 
ried away.  The  boy  Vanni  swept  all  his  goods  into  a  basket 
and  after  one  look  at  the  thief  was  off  like  a  shot.  Presently 
up  came  two  or  three  men  in  the  livery  of  the  King's  officers. 

Meanwhile  Farmer  Appleby  and  his  sister  came  up,  having 
seen  the  affair  from  a  little   distance. 

"My  faith,"  said  Aunt  Olive  indignantly,  "he  might  have 
spared  a  penny  or  two  for  your  trouble.  That  was  Gamelyn 
Bouverel,  one  of  the  richest  goldsmiths  in  Chepe." 

"I  don't  care,"  laughed  Barty,  "it  was  good  sport." 

But  that  was  not  to  be  the  end  of  it.  They  were  on  their 
way  to  the  roast-pig  booth  where  cooked  meat  could  be  had 
hot  from  the  fire,  when  a  young  Londoner  came  toward  them. 

"You  are  the  lad  who  saved  my  uncle's  purse  for  him,"  he 
said  in  a  relieved  tone.  "I  thought  I  had  lost  you  in  the  crowd. 
Here  is  a  fairing  for  you,"  and  he  slipped  a  silver  groat  into 
Barty's  hand. 

"Now,  that  is  more  like  a  Christian,"  observed  Aunt  Olive. 


MIDSUMMER  DAY  IN  ENGLAND 

A  thousand  years  ago  this   England  drew 

Into  her  magic  circle  Robin,  Puck, 
Friar  Rush,  the   Jester — all   the  wizard  crew 

That   foot  it  through  the  mazes  for  good   luck. 
Flyting  and  frisking  through  the  Sussex  lanes 

They  watched  the  Roman  legions  come  and  go, 
And  the  tall  ships  that  once  were  kingly  Spain's 

Driven   like   drifting  snow. 

Midsummer  Day  in  England !  Faery  bells 

Blue  as  the  skies — and  wheat-fields  poppy-sown. 

Queen  Mab's  own  roses — hawthorn-scented  dells, 
And  marshes  where  the  bittern  broods  alone. 

Bees  of  this  garden,  over  Salisbury  Plain 
The  circling  airships  drone  I 


XV 
EDWITHA'S    LITTLE    BOWL 

HOW    EDWITHA    FOUND   ROMAN    POTTERY   IN    THE    FIELD   OF   A 

SUSSEX    FARM 

UNDER  a  hawthorn  bush,  near  a  white  road  leading 
up  a  hill,  in  sight  of  a  thatch-roofed  farmhouse,  two 
little  girls  were  playing  house.  Their  names  were 
Edwitha  and  Audrey,  and  they  were  cousins.  Au- 
drey's father  lived  in  the  farmhouse  and  kept  sheep  on  the 
Downs,  and  Edwitha  had  also  lived  there  nearly  all  her  life. 
Her  father  had  been  lost  at  sea,  and  her  mother  had  brought 
her  back  to  the  old  home,  and  died  not  long  after.  The  two 
girls  had  grown  up  like  sisters,  for  the  farmer  was  not  a  man 
who  did  things  by  halves,  and  when  he  adopted  his  brother's 
orphan  child  he  made  her  his  own. 

The  two  children  were  almost  exactly  of  a  size,  and  within 
a  year  of  the  same  age;  and  both  had  the  milky  skin  and  rose- 
pink  cheeks  which  make  English  children  look  so  like  flowers. 
But  Audrey's  hair  was  yellow  as  ripe  wheat,  and  Edwitha's 
was  brown  like  an  oak-leaf  in  autumn;  Audrey's  eyes  were 
gray,  and  Edwitha's  were  dark  and  dreamy.  They  wore 
homespun  linen  gowns  off  the  same  web  of  watchet  blue,  and 
little  clumsy  leather  shoes  like  sandals,  made  by  the  village 
shoemaker-     This  particular  place  was  their  /avovite  play- 

187 


i88  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

house.  There  were  two  hollows,  like  dimples  in  the  hill,  and 
the  bush  bent  over  one  like  a  roof,  while  the  other  had  been 
roofed  over  by  a  neighbor-lad,  Wilfrid,  He  had  stuck  sap- 
lings into  the  ground,  bent  the  tops  over  and  woven  branches 
in  and  out  to  hold  them.  They  took  root  and  came  out  in 
fine  leaf.  Wilfrid  had  seen  something  like  it  in  a  garden, 
where  a  walk  was  roofed  in  this  way  and  called  a  "pleached 
alley."  It  looked  like  a  bird's  nest  built  on  the  ground,  but  it 
was  a  very  nice  little  bower. 

At  this  particular  hour  they  were  making  ready  for  a  feast, 
setting  out  the  eatables  on  all  their  best  bits  of  crockery. 
Whatever  was  broken  in  the  house  was  likely  to  come  to  them, 
and  besides  this,  they  found  a  good  many  pieces  of  pottery  of 
different  kinds  on  the  farm.  This  had  been,  a  thousand  years 
before,  a  part  of  a  Roman  governor's  countr}^  estate.  When 
the  men  were  plowing  they  often  turned  up  scraps  of  bronze, 
tiles,  or  dishes  that  had  been  all  that  time  buried  in  the  earth. 

Edwitha  was  especially  fond  of  the  tiles;  and  she  had  col- 
lected almost  enough  of  them  to  make  a  little  hearth.  The 
one  she  intended  for  the  middle  had  a  picture  in  colors  of  a 
little  brown  rabbit  sitting  on  the  grass,  nibbling  a  carrot,  with 
a  blue  flower  and  a  yellow  one  growing  close  by.  It  was  almost 
whole — only  one  corner  was  broken. 

Edwitha's  dishes  were  nearly  all  of  the  old  Roman  ware. 
The  fragments  were  deep  red,  and  some  had  little  black  fig- 
ures and  decorations  on  them.  No  two  fitted  together,  and 
there  were  no  pieces  large  enough  for  her  to  make  out  what 
the  dish  had  been  like.  She  used  to  wonder  what  sort  of  peo- 
ple had  used  those  dishes,  and  whether  they  lived  very  dif- 
ferently from  the  Sussex  people  who  came  after  them.     It 


EDWITHA'S  LITTLE  BOWL  189 

seemed  as  if  they  must  have.  No  dishes  made  nowadays  had 
any  such  a]^pearance. 

Audrey  did  not  care  about  such  matters.  She  preferred  a 
bowl  and  jug  she  had  which  came  from  the  pottery,  and  were 
whole,  and  would  hold  milk  and  honey.  When  the  two  girls 
ate  their  dinner  in  their  bower,  as  they  sometimes  did,  they 
used  little  wooden  bowls  with  horn  spoons. 

Wilfrid  was  the  only  person  Edwitha  knew,  besides  herself, 
who  was  at  all  interested  in  the  unearthed  pottery.  He  had 
brought  her  some  of  the  best  pieces  she  had,  and  had  asked 
the  priest  at  the  village  whether  he  knew  who  made  such 
things.  Father  Cuthbert  knew  that  there  had  been  Romans 
in  England,  and  he  told  Wilfrid  some  Roman  history,  but 
there  was  nothing  in  it  about  the  way  in  which  the  Romans 
really  lived. 

The  very  road  that  ran  past  the  bower  had  been  made  by 
the  Romans.  It  gave  its  name  to  the  farm — Borstall  Farm. 
It  was  a  track  cut  deep  into  the  chalk  of  the  hill,  not  more 
than  ten  feet  wide,  leading  to  the  camp  which  had  once  been 
on  the  top  of  the  Down.  Nothing  was  there  now  but  the 
sheep  and  the  gorse  and  the  short,  sweet  grass  of  the  Downs. 
On  a  level  terrace-like  break  in  the  hillside,  overlooking  the 
valley,  a  Roman  villa  had  stood,  a  great  house  with  white 
porticoes,  marble  columns,  tiled  floors  and  painted  walls. 
Mosaic  pictures  of  the  gods  had  been  a  part  of  its  decorations, 
and  if  any  one  had  known  it,  those  buried  gods  were  under  the 
hillside  quite  uninjured — so  firm  and  strong  was  the  Roman 
cement,  and  so  thorough  the  work.  Hundreds  of  guests  and 
relatives  and  servants  had  come  and  gone  in  the  stately  palace 
of  the  provincial  Governor ;  the  farm  lands  around  it  had  been 


190  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

tilled  by  hundreds  of  peasants  in  its  two  hundred  years  of 
splendor.  No  wonder  there  were  so  many  fragments  I  A 
great  many  dishes  can  be  broken  in  two  centuries. 

Pincher,  the  old  sheep-dog,  had  been  invited  to  the  feast 
in  the  bower,  but  when  it  was  ready  he  was  busy  elsewhere. 
Edwitha  went  looking  for  him,  and  after  she  had  called  sev- 
eral times  she  heard  his  answering  "Wuff !  Wuff !"  and  caught 
sight  of  him  down  among  the  brambles  at  the  boundary-line 
of  the  next  farmstead.  He  came  leaping  toward  her,  and  as 
she  looked  at  the  place  where  he  had  been,  she  saw  that  a  piece 
of  the  bank  had  slid  into  a  rabbit-burrow,  and  something  red 
was  sticking  out  of  the  earth.    It  was  a  little  red  bowl. 

No  such  bowls  are  made  in  these  days.  They  are  never 
seen  except  on  a  shelf  in  some  museum.  Wise  men  have 
called  them  "Samian  ware,"  because  they  have  been  found  on 
the  island  of  Samos,  but  as  some  of  this  ware  has  been  found 
wherever  the  Romans  went  in  Gaul  or  Britain,  it  would  seem 
that  they  must  have  had  some  secret  process  in  their  potteries 
and  made  it  out  of  ordinary  clay. 

The  bowl  was  deep  red,  and  beautifully  smooth.  Around 
it  was  a  band  of  little  dancing  figures  in  jet  black,  so  lifelike 
that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  such  figures  might  come  out  of  the 
copse  and  dance  away  down  the  hill.  Edwitha  took  some 
leaves  and  rubbed  off  the  clay  that  stuck  to  the  bowl,  and  the 
cleaner  she  made  it  the  prettier  it  was.  Very  carefully  she  car- 
ried it  back  to  the  bower  to  show  Audrey. 

Half  way  there,  a  dreadful  thought  came  to  her.  What  if 
Audrey  should  want  the  bowl^  It  was  quite  perfect — the 
only  whole  one  they  had  found — and  Audrey  always  liked 
things  that  were  whole,  not  broken  or  nicked,  better  than  any 


EDWITHA'S  LITTLE  BOWL  191 

sort  of  imperfect  ones.    Certainly  they  could  not  both  have  it. 

Edwitha  came  to  a  stop,  and  stood  quite  still,  thinking 
about  it.  She  knew  a  place,  under  the  roots  of  an  old  tree, 
where  she  could  keep  the  bowl,  and  go  and  look  at  it  when 
she  was  alone,  and  no  one  would  know  that  she  had  it.  If 
Audrey  wanted  the  bowl,  and  took  it,  she  might  let  it  get 
broken,  and  then  she  would  be  willing  that  Edwitha  should 
have  it;  but  that  would  be  worse  than  not  having  it  at  all. 
Edwitha  felt  as  if  she  could  not  bear  to  have  anything  happen 
to  the  pretty  thing.  It  already  seemed  like  something  alive — 
like  a  strange,  mute  person  whom  nobody  understood  but  her- 
self. She  was  the  only  person  who  really  wanted  it,  and  she 
knew  that  it  wanted  her. 

But  under  these  thoughts  which  pushed  unbidden  into  Ed- 
witha's  mind  was  her  own  feeling  that  it  was  a  meanness  even 
to  think  them.  She  and  Audrey  had  all  their  lives  done  things 
together,  and  Audrey  always  shared.    She  always  played  fair. 

Edwitha  took  the  bowl  in  both  hands  and  walked  straight 
and  very  fast  up  to  the  bower. 

"Audrey,"  she  said,  holding  out  the  bowl,  "see  what  I 
found." 

Audrey  looked  at  it. 

"That's  like  your  other  dishes,  isn't  it?"  she  commented. 
"Only  it  is  whole.  It  is  just  the  thing  for  the  dewberries. 
They  will  be  prettier  than  in  the  basket." 

Edwitha  set  the  bowl  in  the  middle  of  the  table  and  poured 
the  shining  dark  fruit  into  it.  It  did  look  pretty,  and  it  had 
a  mat  of  green  oak-leaves  under  it  which  made  it  prettier  still. 
Audrey  began  sticking  white  blossoms  round  the  edge  to  set  off 
the  red  and  green. 


192  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

'Tm  glad  you  found  it,"  she  added  placidly;  "you  haven't 
one  dish  that  is  quite  whole,  and  I  have  a  blue  one,  and  a  white 
one,  and  a  jug." 

Edwitha  touched  the  bowl  caressingly  with  the  tips  of  her 
fingers.     "I  will  try  to  find  another  for  you,"  she  said. 

"If  you  find  any  more,"  answered  Audrey,  pushing  Pincher 
away  from  the  dish  of  cold  meat,  "you  can  have  them.  I'd 
'•ather  have  our  dishes  in  sets,  I  think." 

Edwitha  was  poking  about  in  the  bank  where  she  had  found 
the  bowl,  late  that  afternoon,  when  Wilfrid  came  up  the  bank. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  more  dishes  in  sight. 

"What  have  you  found?"  asked  Wilfrid.  He  held  it  up  in 
the  sunlight,  and  drew  a  quick  breath  of  delight.  "How 
beautiful  it  is  I"  he  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice. 

Edwitha  was  silent.  She  was  filled  with  a  great  happiness 
because  she  had  the  bowl. 

"I  wonder  how  it  came  to  be  here,"  mused  Wilfrid,  and  fell 
to  digging  and  prodding  the  earth. 

"There  isn't  another  in  the  hole,"  said  Edwitha.  "I've  been 
here  a  long  time." 

"This  is  the  only  bit  I  ever  saw  that  was  found  just 
here.  But  see  here,  Edwitha,  this  is  clay.  It  is  exactly  like 
the  clay  they  use  at  the  pottery  down  by  the  ford,  but  finer — 
I  think.    I  tell  you — I  believe  there  was  a  pottery  here  once." 

He  and  Edwitha  took  the  bowl  and  a  few  lumps  of  the  clay, 
next  morning,  to  the  Master  Potter  beyond  the  village.  Wil- 
frid had  served  his  apprenticeship  at  this  pottery  and  was  now 
a  journeyman.  The  clay  proved  to  be  finer  and  more  work- 
able than  that  near  the  pottery,  and  the  deposit  was  close  to 
the  high  road,  so  that  donkeys  and  pack-horses  could  come  up 


EDWITHA'S  LITTLE  BOWL  193 

easily  to  be  loaded  with  their  earthen  pots.  It  was  even  pos- 
sible, so  the  Master  Potter  said,  that  it  would  make  a  better 
grade  of  ware  than  they  had  been  able  to  make  hitherto. 
Finally,  and  most  important  from  the  point  of  view  of  Wilfrid 
and  Edwitha,  it  was  on  Wilfrid's  own  farm,  he  had  his  old 
mother  to  support,  and  this  discovery  might  make  it  possible 
for  him  to  have  his  own  pottery  and  be  a  Master  Potter. 

Edwitha  often  wished  that  the  bowl  could  speak,  and  tell 
her  how  it  was  made,  and  who  drew  the  little  dancing  figures. 
In  course  of  time  Wilfrid  tried  some  experiments  with  pottery, 
ornamenting  it  with  figures  in  white  cla)^  on  the  colored  ground, 
and  searching  continually  for  new  and  better  methods  of  glaz- 
ing, baking,  and  modeling  his  wares.  At  last,  when  the  years 
of  his  apprenticeship  had  all  been  served,  and  he  knew  every- 
thing that  was  taught  in  the  old  Sussex  pottery  by  the  ford, 
he  came  one  spring  twilight  to  the  farmhouse  and  found  Ed- 
witha in  the  garden. 

"It  is  no  use,"  he  said,  half-laughing.  "I  shall  never  be 
content  to  settle  down  here  until  I  have  seen  what  they  are 
doing  in  other  lands.  If  there  is  anywhere  a  man  who  can 
make  things  like  that  bowl  of  yours,  I  must  learn  what  he  can 
teach  me.  It  may  be  that  the  secret  has  been  lost — if  it  has,  I 
will  come  back  and  work  here  again.  A  man  was  never  meant 
to  do  less  than  his  best,  Edwitha." 

"I  know,"  said  Edwitha.  "Those  figures  make  me  feel  so 
too.  They  always  did.  I  don't  want  to  live  anywhere  but 
here — and  now  Audrey  has  gone  away,  uncle  and  aunt  could 
never  do  without  me — but  I  wish  we  could  make  beautiful 
things  in  England." 


194  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

"Some  of  the  clever  ones  are  in  England,"  Wilfrid  an- 
swered. "They  are  doing  good  work  in  glass,  I  know,  and  in 
carven  stone,  and  some  other  things,  but  that  is  mostly  for  the 
rich  abbeys.  I  shall  never  be  aught  but  a  potter — but  I  will 
be  as  good  a  one  as  I  can." 

Therefore  Wilfrid  took  scrip  and  staff  and  went  on  pil- 
grimage to  France,  and  there  he  saw  things  which  made  him 
sure  that  men  had  not  lost  the  love  of  beauty  out  of  the  world. 
But  he  could  hear  of  no  master  potters  who  made  anything 
like  the  deep  red  Roman  ware.  After  a  year  of  wandering  he 
came  back,  full  of  new  plans,  and  with  many  tales  to  tell; 
but  he  told  Edwitha  that  in  all  his  travels  he  had  seen  nothing 
which  was  better  worth  looking  at  than  her  little  Roman  bowl. 


"  -iiUW    LEALTiiLL    iX     IS;'    IIL    LXCLALMED-'—Fa^e   194 


SONG  OF  THE  TAPESTRY  WEAVERS 

All  among  the  furze-bush,  round  the  crystal  dewpond, 
Feed  the  silly  sheep  like  a  cloud  upon  the  down. 

Come  safely  home  to  croft,  bear  fleeces  white  and  soft, 
Then  we'll  send  the  wool-wains  to  fair  London  Town. 

All  in  the  dawnlight,  white  as  a  snowdrift 

Lies  the  wool  a-waiting  the  spindle  and  the  wheel. 

Sing,  wheel,  right  cheerily,  while  I  pace  merrily,— 
Knot  by  knot  the  thread  runs  on  the  busy  reel. 

All  in  the  sunshine,  gay  as  a  garden. 

Lie  the  skeins  for  weaving,  the  blue  and  gold  and  red. 
Fly,  shuttle,  merrily,  in  and  out  cheerily. 

Making  all  the  woof  bright  with  a  rainbow  thread. 

All  in  the  noontide,  wend  we  to  market, — 

Hear  the  folk  a-chaffering  like  jackdaws  up  and  down. 
Master,  give  ear  to  me,  here's  cloth  for  you  to  see, 

Fit  for  a  canopy  in  fair  London  Town. 

All  in  the  twilight  sweet  with  the  hearth-smoke. 

Homeward  we  go  riding  while  the  vesper  bells  ring. 

Southdown  or  Highland  Scot,  Fleming  or  Huguenot, 
Weaving  our  tapestries  we  shall  serve  our  Kmg ! 


XVI 
LOOMS    IN    MINCHEN    LANE 

HOW    CORNELYS    BAT,    THE    FLEMISH    WEAVER,    BEFRIENDED   A 
BLACK  SHEEP  AND  SAVED   HIS   WOOL 

IT  was  in  the  early  springtime,  when  lambs  are  frisking  like 
rabbits  upon  the  tender  green  grass,  and  all  the  land  is 
like  a  tapestry  of  blue  and  white  and  gold  and  pink  and 
green.  Robert  Edrupt,  as  he  rode  westward  from  London 
on  his  homeward  way,  felt  that  he  had  never  loved  his  country 
quite  so  well  as  now.  He  had  gone  with  a  flock  of  English 
sheerp  to  northern  Spain,  and  come  back  in  the  same  ship  with 
the  Spanish  jennets  which  the  captain  took  in  exchange.  On 
one  of  those  graceful  half-Arabian  horses  he  was  now  riding, 
and  on  another,  a  little  behind  him,  rode  a  swarthy,  black- 
haired  and  black-eyed  youngster  in  a  sheepskin  tunic,  who 
looked  about  him  as  if  all  that  he  saw  were  strange. 

In  truth  Cimarron,  as  they  called  him,  was  very  like  a  wild 
sheep  from  his  native  Pyrenees,  and  Edrupt  was  wondering, 
with  some  amusement  and  a  little  apprehension,  what  his 
grandmother  and  Barbara  would  say.  The  boy  had  been  his 
servant  in  a  rather  dangerous  expedition  through  the  moun- 
tains, and  but  for  his  watchfulness  and  courage  the  English 
wool-merchant  might  not  have  come  back  alive.  Edrupt  had 
been  awakened  between  two  and  three  in  the  morning  and  told 

197 


198  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

that  robbers  were  on  their  trail,  and  then,  abandoning  their 
animals,  Cimarron  had  led  him  over  a  precipitous  cliff  and 
down  into  the  next  valley  by  a  road  which  he  and  the  wild 
creatures  alone  had  traveled.  When  the  horses  were  led  on 
shipboard  the  boy  had  come  with  them,  and  London  was  no 
place  to  leave  him  after  that. 

They  rode  up  the  well-worn  track  into  the  yard  of  Longley 
Farm,  and  leaving  the  horses  with  his  attendant,  Edrupt  went 
to  find  his  family.  Dame  Lysbeth  was  seated  in  her  chair  by 
the  window,  spinning,  and  would  have  sent  one  of  the  maids 
to  call  the  mistress  of  the  house,  but  Edrupt  shook  his  head. 
He  said  that  he  would  go  look  for  Barbara  himself. 

He  found  her  kneeling  on  the  turf  tending  a  motherless 
lamb,  and  it  was  a  good  thing  that  the  lamb  had  had  nearly  all 
it  could  drink  already,  for  when  Barbara  looked  up  and  saw 
who  was  coming  the  rest  of  the  milk  was  spilled.  She  looked 
down,  laughing  and  blushing,  presently,  at  the  hem  of  her 
russet  gown. 

"Sheep  take  a  deal  o'  mothering,"  she  explained,  "well-nigh 
as  much  as  men.  Come  and  see  the  new-born  lambs,  Robert, 
will  'ee?" 

Robert  stroked  the  head  of  the  old  sheep-dog  that  had  come 
up  for  his  share  of  petting.  "Here  is  a  black  sheep  for  thee 
to  mother,  sweetheart,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  "He's  of  a 
breed  that  is  new  in  these  parts." 

Barbara  looked  at  the  rough,  unkempt  young  stranger,  with 
surprise  but  no  unkindness  in  her  eyes.  She  was  not  easily 
upset,  and  however  wild  he  looked,  the  new-comer  had  been 
brought  by  Robert,  and  that  was  all  that  concerned  her. 
"Where  did  tha  find  him,  and  what's  his  name'^"  she  inquired. 


LOOMS  IN  MINCHEN  LANE  199 

Edrupt  laughed  again,  in  proud  satisfaction  this  time;  he 
might  have  known  that  Barbara  would  behave  just  in  that 
way.  He  explained,  and  Cimarron  was  forthwith  shown  a 
corner  of  a  loft  where  he  might  sleep,  and  introduced  to  Don 
the  collie  as  a  shepherd  in  good  standing.  He  and  the  sheep- 
dog seemed  to  understand  each  other  almost  at  once,  and 
though  one  was  almost  as  silent  as  the  other,  they  became  ex- 
cellent comrades. 

Besides  the  sheep,  Cimarron  seemed  interested  in  but  one 
thing  on  the  farm,  and  that  was  the  old  loom  which  had  be- 
longed to  Dame  Garland  and  still  stood  in  the  weaving-cham- 
ber, where  he  slept.  Dame  Lysbeth,  rummaging  there  for 
some  flax  that  she  wanted,  found  the  boy  sitting  on  the  bench 
with  one  bare  foot  on  the  treadle,  studying  the  workings  of 
the  clumsy  machine.  It  was  a  "high-warp"  loom,  in  which  the 
web  is  vertical,  and  in  the  loom-chamber  where  Barbara's 
maids  spun  and  wove,  Edrupt  had  set  up  a  Flemish  "low- 
warp"  loom  with  all  the  latest  fittings.  Into  that  place  the 
herd-boy  had  never  ventured.  But  Dame  Lysbeth  saw  with 
surprise  that  he  seemed  to  understand  this  loom  quite  well. 
When  he  was  asked,  he  said  that  he  had  seen  weaving  done  on 
such  a  loom  in  his  country. 

"Robert  will  be  surprised,"  said  Barbara  thoughtfully. 
"Who  ever  saw  a  lad  like  that  who  cared  about  weaving'?" 

But  Edrupt  was  not  as  mystified  as  the  women  were.  He 
thought  it  quite  possible  that  the  dark  young  stranger  might 
have  come  of  some  Eastern  race  which  had  made  weaving  an 
art  beyond  anything  the  West  could  do.  "I  think,"  he  said 
one  morning,  "that  I  will  take  him  to  London  and  let  him  try 
what  he  can  do  in  Cornelys  Bat's  factory." 


200  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Cornelys  Bat  was  a  Flemish  weaver  who  had  come  to  Lon- 
don some  months  before  and  set  up  his  looms  in  an  old  wool- 
storeroom  outside  London  Wall.  He  was  a  very  skillful  work- 
man, but  Flanders  had  weavers  enough  to  supply  half  Europe 
with  clothing,  and  his  own  town  of  Arras  was  already  known 
for  its  tapestries.  The  Lowlands  were  overcrowded,  and  there 
was  not  bread  enough  to  go  around.  Edrupt,  whom  he  had 
known  for  several  years,  helped  him  to  settle  himself  in  Eng- 
land, and  he  had  met  with  almost  immediate  success.  Now 
he  had  with  him  not  only  his  old  parents,  a  younger  brother 
and  sister  and  an  aunt  with  her  two  children,  but  three  neigh- 
bors who  also  found  life  hard  in  populous  Flanders.  He  felt 
that  he  had  done  well  in  following  Edrupt's  advice,  "When 
the  wool  won't  come  to  you,  go  where  the  wool  is."  He  was 
a  square-built,  placid,  light-haired  man  with  a  stolid  expres- 
sion that  sometimes  misled  people.  When  Edrupt  came  to  him 
with  a  strange  new  apprentice,  he  readily  consented  to  give 
the  boy  a  chance.  It  was  the  only  chance  that  there  was,  for 
the  Weavers'  Guild  would  not  have  had  him. 

After  a  while  Cimarron,  or  Zamaroun  as  the  other  'prentices 
called  him,  was  promoted  from  porter  to  draw-boy,  as  the 
weaver's  assistant  was  termed.  This  work  did  not  need  skill, 
exactly,  but  it  did  demand  strength  and  close  attention.  The 
boy  from  the  Pyrenees  was  as  strong  as  a  young  ox,  and  he 
was  never  tired  of  watching  the  work  and  seeing  exactly  how 
it  was  done.  His  silent,  quick  strength  suited  Cornelys  Bat. 
Weaving  is  work  which  needs  the  constant  thought  of  the 
weaver,  especially  when  the  work  is  tapestry,  and  just  at 
present  the  Flemings  had  secured  an  order  for  a  set  of  tapes- 
tries for  one  of  the  King's  country  houses.     Henry  II.  was  so 


LOOMS  IN  MINCHEN  LANE 


201 


continuall)'  traveling  that  the  King  of  France  once  petulantly 
observed  that  he  must  fly  like  a  bird  through  the  air  to  be  in 
so  many  places  during  the  year.  He  had  a  way  of  mixing 
sport  with  state  affairs,  and  a  week  spent  in  some  palace  like 
Woodstock  or  Clarendon  might  be  divided  evenly  between 
his  lawyers  and  his  hunting-dogs.  It  is  also  said  of  him  that 
he  never  forgot  a  face  or  a  fact  once  brought  to  his  notice. 
Perhaps  he  learned  more  on  his  hunting  trips  than  any  one 
imagined. 


HIGH-WARP    LOOM 


LOW-WARP    LOOM 


The  tapestry  weaving  was  far  more  complex  and  difficult 
than  anything  done  by  Barbara  Edrupt's  maids.  The  loom 
used  by  the  Flemings  was  a  "low-warp"  loom,  in  which  the 
web  is  horizontal.  When  the  heavy  timbers  were  set  up  they 
were  mortised  together,  that  is,  a  projection  in  one  fitted  into 


202  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

a  hollow  in  another,  dovetailing  them  together  without  nails. 
Wooden  pegs  titted  into  holes,  and  thus  the  frame,  in  all  its 
parts,  could  be  taken  to  pieces  and  carried  from  place  to  place 
on  pack-horses  if  necessary.  .\n  ordinary  loom  was  about 
eight  feet  long  and  perhaps  four  feet  wide,  the  web  usually 
bein^r  not  more  than  a  yard  wide,  and  more  commonly  twenrv- 
three  or  four  inches.  Broadcloth  was  woven  in  those  days, 
but  not  yer}-  commonly,  for  it  needed  a  specially  constructed 
loom  and  two  weavers,  one  for  each  side,  because  of  the  width 
oi  the  cloth.  In  tapestry  weaving  the  picture  was  made  in 
strips,  as  a  rule,  and  sewed  together. 

The  idea  of  tapestn.'  weaving  in  the  early  part  of  the  Middle 
A;::es  was  to  tell  a  storr.  Few  colors  were  used,  and  instead  of 
making  one  large  picture,  which  would  have  been  verj"  difficult 
with  the  looms  then  in  use,  the  tapestries  were  made  in  sets, 
in  which  a  series  of  pictures  from  some  legends  or  chronicle 
could  be  shown.  Wlien  in  place,  they  were  wall-coverings 
hung  loosely  from  great  iron  hooks  over  which  rings  were 
slipped,  or  hangings  for  state  beds,  or  sometimes  a  strip  of 
tapestr}"  was  hung  above  the  carved  choir-stalls  of  a  church, 
horizontally,  to  add  a  touch  of  color  to  the  gray  walls.  \Mien 
a  court  moved,  or  there  was  a  festival  day  in  the  church,  these 
woven  or  embroidered  hangings  could  be  taken  from  one  place 
to  another.  Many  tapestries  were  embroidered  by  hand, 
which  was  e;isier  for  the  ordinar}"  woman  than  weaving  a  pic- 
ture, but  took  far  more  time.  Kings  and  noblemen  who  had 
money  to  spend  on  such  things  would  order  sets  of  tapestry 
woven  by  such  skilled  workmen  as  Comelys  Bat  and  his  Flem- 
ings, or  the  monks  of  Saumur  in  France,  or  the  weavers  of 
Poitiers.     In  Sicily,  these  hangings  were  often  made  of  silk. 


LOOxMS  IN  MINCHEN  LANE  203 

for  silk  was  already  made  there.  Gold  and  silver  thread  was 
used  sometimes,  both  in  weaving  and  embroidery.  Wool,  how- 
ever, was  very  satisfactory,  not  only  because  it  was  less  costly 
than  silk,  but  because  it  took  dye  well  and  made  a  web  of  rich 
soft  colors.  It  was  this  which  had  drawn  Robert  Edrupt  into 
Flanders  to  see  what  the  weavers  there  were  about,  what  sort 
of  wool  they  used,  and  what  the  outlook  was  for  their  work. 
In  Cornelys  Bat  he  had  found  a  man  who  could  tell  him  very 
nearly  all  that  there  was  to  know  about  weaving. 

Yet  weaving  is  a  craft  of  so  many  possibilities  and  com- 
plexities that  a  man  may  spend  his  whole  life  at  it  and  still 
feel  himself  only  a  learner.  The  master  weaver  liked  Cimar- 
ron because  the  boy  never  chattered,  but  kept  his  whole  mind 
on  his  work.  When  Cornelys  was  revolving  some  new  com- 
bination or  design  in  his  head,  his  drawboy  was  as  silent  as  the 
weaver's  beam,  and  the  whirr  and  clack  of  the  loom  were  the 
only  sounds  in  the  place. 

The  weaver  at  such  a  loom  sat  at  one  end  on  a  little  board, 
with  the  heavy  roller  or  weaver's  beam  on  which  the  warp, 
the  lengthwise  thread,  was  fastened  in  front  of  him.  At  the 
far  end  of  the  frame  was  another  roller,  the  warp  being 
stretched  taut  between  the  two.  As  the  work  progressed  the 
web  was  rolled  up  gradually  toward  the  weaver,  and  the  pat- 
tern, if  there  was  one,  lay  under  the  warp  and  was  rolled  up 
on  a  separate  roller.  Every  skilled  weaver  had  a  number  of 
simple  patterns  in  his  head,  as  a  knitter  has,  but  for  a  tapestry 
picture  a  pattern  was  drawn  and  colored  on  parchment  ruled 
in  squares,  and  a  duplicate  pattern  made  without  the  color, 
showing  all  the  arrangement  of  the  threads  and  used  in  "gat- 
ing" as  the  arrangement  of  the  warp  in  the  beginning  was 


204  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

called.  Every  weaver  had  his  own  way  of  gating,  and  his  own 
little  tricks  of  weaving.  It  was  a  craft  that  gave  a  chance  for 
any  amount  of  ingenuity. 

In  plain,  "tabby"  or  "taffety"  weaving,  the  weft  or  woof, 
the  crosswise  thread,  went  in  and  out  exactly  as  in  darning, 
and  the  two  treadles  underneath  the  web,  worked  by  the  feet, 
lifted  alternately  the  odd  threads  and  the  even  threads,  the 
weaver  tossing  the  shuttle  from  hand  to  hand  between  them. 
At  each  stroke  of  the  shuttle  the  swinging  beam,  or  batten,  beat 
up  the  weft  to  make  a  cloee,  firm,  even  weave.  The  shuttle, 
made  of  boxwood  and  shaped  like  a  little  boat,  held  in  its 
hollow  the  "quill"  or  bobbin  carrying  the  weft.  When  all  the 
"yarn,"  as  thread  for  weaving  was  always  called,  was  wound 
off,  the  weaver  fastened  on  the  end  of  the  next  thread  with 
what  is  even  now  called  a  "weaver's  knot."  As  the  side  of  the 
web  toward  him  was  the  wrong  side  of  the  cloth,  no  knot  was 
allowed  to  show  on  the  right  side. 

In  brocaded,  figured  or  tapestry  weaving,  leashes  or  loops 
called  heddles  were  hung  from  above  and  lifted  whatever  part 
of  the  warp  they  were  attached  to.  For  example,  three  threads 
out  of  ten  in  the  warp  could  be  lifted  by  one  group  of  heddles 
with  one  motion  of  the  treadle,  the  heddles  being  grouped  or 
"harnessed"  to  make  this  possible.  It  can  be  seen  that  in 
weaving  by  hand  a  tapestry  with  perhaps  forty  or  fifty  figures 
and  animals,  besides  flowers  and  trees,  the  most  convenient 
arrangement  of  the  heddles  called  for  brains  as  well  as  skill 
of  hand  in  the  weaver  who  did  the  work.  The  drawboy's  work 
was  to  pull  each  set  of  cords  in  regular  order  forward  and 
downward.  These  cords  had  to  raise  a  weight  of  about  thirty- 
six  pounds,  which  the  boy  must  hold  for  perhaps  a  third  of  a 


LOOMS  IN  MINCHEN  LANE  205 

minute  while  the  ground  was  woven.  He  was  in  a  way  a  part 
of  the  machine,  but  a  part  which  had  a  brain. 

A  ratchet  on  the  roller  which  held  the  finished  web  kept  it 
from  slipping  back  and  held  the  warp  stretched  firm  at  that 
end,  and  in  some  looms  there  was  a  ratchet  on  the  other  roller 
as  well.  But  Cornelys  Bat  preferred  weights  at  the  far  end  of 
the  warp.  These  allowed  the  warp  to  give  a  tiny  bit  at  every 
blow  of  the  batten  and  then  drew  it  instantly  taut,  no  matter 
how  heavy  the  box  was  made.  "This  kindly  giving,"  ex- 
plained the  weaver,  "preventeth  the  breaking  of  the  slender 
threads.  No  law  may  be  kept  too  straitly  and  no  thread  drawn 
too  strictly.    That  is  a  part  of  the  craft." 

Cornelys  may  have  been  thinking  of  something  more  than 
weaving  when  he  made  that  observation.  The  quiet  tapissiers 
of  Arras  had  caused  an  uproar  in  the  Guild  of  London  Weav- 
ers. A  few  cool  heads  advised  the  others  to  live  and  let  live. 
The  Flemings  would  be  good  English  folk  in  time,  and  what- 
ever they  knew  would  help  the  craft  in  the  future.  But  others, 
forgetting  that  they  had  refused  to  let  their  sons  serve  ap- 
prenticeship to  Cornelys  Bat  when  he  came,  railed  at  him  for 
taking  Flemings,  Gascons,  Florentines  and  even  a  vagabond 
from  nobody  knew  where,  into  his  employ. 

"We  will  have  no  black  sheep  in  our  fold,"  vociferated  the 
leader  of  this  faction,  a  keen-faced,  tow-headed  man  of  middle 
age.     "These  foreigners  will  ruin  the  craft." 

"Tut,  tut,"  protested  Martin  Byram,  "I  have  heard  Master 
Cole  of  Reading  say  that  thy  grandfather,  his  'prentice  boy, 
was  a  Swabian,  Simon.    And  he  brought  no  craft  to  England." 

There  was  a  laugh,  for  everybody  knew  that  the  superior 
skill  of  the  Flemings  was  one  main  cause  of  their  success  in  the 


2o6  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

market.  Some  of  the, weavers  even  had  the  insight  to  see  that 
so  far  from  taking  work  away  from  any  English  weaver,  they 
were  thus  far  doing  work  which  would  have  gone  abroad  to 
find  them  if  they  had  not  been  here,  and  the  gold  paid  them 
was  kept  and  spent  in  London  markets. 

For  all  that,  the  feeling  against  the  Flemings  grew  and 
spread,  and  might  have  broken  out  into  open  violence  if  they 
had  not  been  working  on  the  King's  tapestries.  Nobody  felt 
like  interfering  with  them  until  that  job  was  done,  for  the 
King  might  ask  questions,  and  not  like  the  answers. 

How  much  of  all  this  Cornelys  Bat  knew,  no  one  could  tell. 
Cimarron  watched  him,  but  the  broad,  thoughtful  face  was 
placid  as  usual.  One  day,  however,  the  dark  young  apprentice 
was  set  upon  in  the  street,  where  he  had  gone  on  an  errand,  by 
a  crowd  of  other  lads  who  nearly  tore  the  clothes  off  his  back. 
They  had  not  reckoned  on  effectual  fighting  strength  in  this 
foreign  youth,  and  they  found  that  even  a  black  sheep  can  be 
dangerous  on  occasion.  The  threats  which  they  muttered  set 
the  boy's  mountain-bred  senses  on  the  alert,  and  he  went  back 
to  the  master  weaver  with  the  information  that  as  soon  as 
the  King's  tapestries  were  finished  the  looms  and  their  shelter 
would  be  burned  over  their  heads. 

"I  hid  in  the  loft  and  heard,"  said  Cimarron  earnestly. 
"They  are  evil  men  here,  master." 

The  Fleming  frowned  slightly  and  balanced  the  beam  of 
his  loom — he  was  about  to  begin  the  last  panel — thoughtfully 
in  his  hand.  "So  it  seems,"  he  said.  "Well,  we  will  finish  the 
tapestries  as  early  as  may  be." 

One  of  the  weavers  saw  lights  in  the  Flemish  loom-rooms 
that  night,  and  reported  that  the  strangers  were  working  by 


LOOMS  IN  MINCHEN  LANE  207 

candle-light,  contrary  to  the  law  of  the  Guild — to  which  they 
did  not  belong.  But  Cornelys  Bat  was  gathering  together  the 
work  already  done,  and  he  and  Cimarron  and  two  of  the  other 
men  carried  it  before  morning  to  the  warehouse  of  Gilbert  Gay, 
the  merchant,  where  it  would  be  safe.  They  also  took  there 
certain  bales  of  fine  wool,  dyes,  and  some  household  goods, 
and  all  this  was  loaded  the  next  day  on  a  boat  and  sent  up 
the  Thames  to  a  point  above  London,  where  Robert  Edrupt's 
pack-horses  took  it  to  King's  Barton. 

"It  is  no  use  to  try  to  fight  the  entire  Guild,"  said  Edrupt 
ruefully.  "You  had  best  come  to  our  village  and  make  your 
home  there.  When  this  has  blown  over  you  may  come  back 
to  London." 

"If  I  were  alone  I  would  not  budge,"  said  the  Fleming  with 
a  sternness  in  his  blue  eyes.  "But  there  are  the  old  folk  and 
the  little  ones.  We  have  left  our  own  land  and  come  where 
the  wool  was;  it  is  now  time  for  the  work  to  come  to  us," 

"I  will  warrant  you  it  will,"  said  Master  Gay.  "But  are 
you  going  to  leave  your  looms  for  them  to  burn?" 

"Not  quite,"  said  Cornelys  Bat,  grimly. 

The  mob  came  just  after  nightfall  of  the  day  after  the 
women  and  children,  with  the  rest  of  the  household  goods,  had 
gone  on  their  way  to  a  new  home.  It  was  not  a  very  well  or- 
ganized crowd,  and  was  armed  with  clubs,  pikes,  and  torches 
mainly.  It  found  to  its  astonishment  that  the  timbers  of  a 
loom,  heavy  and  well  seasoned,  may  make  excellent  weapons, 
and  that  the  arm  of  a  weaver  is  not  feeble  nor  his  spirit  weak. 
It  was  no  part  of  the  plan  of  Cornelys  Bat  to  leave  the  build- 
ings of  Master  Gay  undefended,  and  the  determined,  organized 
resistance  of  the  Flemings  repelled  the  attack.    The  next  day 


2o8  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

it  was  found  that  the  weavers  had  gone,  and  their  quarters 
were  occupied  by  some  of  Master  Gay's  men  who  were  storing 
there  a  quantity  of  this  year's  fleeces.  Meanwhile  the  Flem- 
ings had  settled  in  the  little  road  that  ran  past  the  nunnery  at 
King's  Barton  and  was  called  Minchen  Lane. 


THE  WISHING  CARPET 

My  rug  lies  under  the  candle-light. 
Flame-red,  sea-blue,  leaf-brown,   gold-bright, 
Born  of  the   shifting   ancient   sand 
Of  a  far-away  desert  land. 

There  in  Haroun  al  Raschid's  day 
A  carpet  enchanted,  their  wise  men  say, 
Was   woven   for   princes,   in   realms   apart — 
And  so  is  this  rug  of  my  heart! 

Here  is  a  leaf  like  the  heart  of  a  rose, 
And   here   the   shift  in   the  pattern  shows 
How  another  weft  in  the  tireless  loom 

Set  the  gold  of  the  skies  a-bloom. 

Old  songs,  old  legends  and  ancient  words 
They  weave  in  the  web  as  they  pasture  their  herds 
On  the  barren  slopes  of  a  mountain  height 
In  the  dusk  of  the  lonely  night. 

Prayers  and  memories  and  wordless  dreams, 
Changeful  shadows  and  lancet  gleams, — 
The  Eden  Tree  in  its  folding  wall 

Knows  them  and  guards  them  all. 

To  Moussoul  market  the  rug  they  brought 
With  all  its  treasure  of  woven  thought. 
And  thus  over  half  a  world  of  sea 
Came  the  Wishing  Rug  to  me. 


XVII 
THE    HERBALIST'S    BREW 

HOW  TOMASO,  THE  PHYSICIAN   OF   PADUA,   FOUND  A  CURE  FOR 

A    WEARY    SOUL 

THERE  was  thunder  in  the  air,  one  summer  day  in 
King's  Barton.  Dame  Lavender,  putting  her  drying 
herbs  under  cover,  wondered  anxiously  what  Mary 
was  doing.  The  moods  of  the  royal  lady  in  the  castle 
depended  very  much  on  the  weather,  and  both  of  late  had 
been  uncertain.  Strong-willed,  hot-tempered,  ambitious  and 
adventurous,  this  Queen  had  no  traits  that  were  suited  to  a 
quiet  existence  in  the  country.  Yet  she  would  have  been  about 
as  safe  a  person  to  have  at  large  as  a  wild-cat  among  harriers. 
Whoever  had  the  worst  of  it,  the  fight  would  be  sensational. 

"VSTien  made  prisoner  she  was  on  the  way  to  the  court  of 
France,  in  which  her  rebellious  sons  could  always  find  aid. 
Aquitaine  was  all  but  in  open  revolt  against  the  Norman 
interloper — it  was  only  through  her  that  Henry  had  held  that 
province  at  all.  Scotland  was  ready  for  trouble  at  any  time; 
Ireland  was  in  tumult;  the  Welsh  were  in  a  permanent  state 
of  revolt.  But  Norman  though  he  was,  the  King  had  won  his 
way  among  his  English  subjects.  They  never  forgot  that  he 
was  only  half  Norman  after  all.    His  Saxon  blood,  cold  and 

211 


212  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

stubborn,  steadied  his  Norman  daring,  and  he  could  be  al- 
ternately bold  and  crafty. 

Eleanor  of  Aquitaine  was  more  an  exile  in  her  husband's 
own  country  than  she  would  have  been  in  France  or  Italy. 
His  people  might  rebel  against  their  King  themselves,  but  they 
did  not  sympathize  with  her  for  doing  it.  They  were  as  un- 
feeling as  their  gray,  calm  skies. 

Instead  of  weeping  and  bemoaning  herself  she  made  life 
difficult  for  her  household.  Oddly  enough  the  two  English 
girls  got  on  with  her  better  than  the  rest.  Mary's  even,  sunny 
temper  was  never  ruffled,  and  Barbara's  North-country  disposi- 
tion had  an  iron  common-sense  at  the  core.  The  gentle-born 
damsels  of  the  court  were  too  yielding. 

When  little  hot  flashes  lightened  among  the  far-off  hills, 
and  a  distant  rumble  sounded  occasionally,  the  Queen  was 
pacing  to  and  fro  on  the  top  of  the  great  keep.  It  was  not  the 
safest  place  to  be  in  case  of  a  storm,  for  the  castle  was  the 
highest  building  in  the  neighborhood.  Fhilippa,  working 
sedately  at  a  tapestry  emblem  of  a  tower  in  flames,  looked  up 
the  stairway  and  shivered  as  if  she  were  cold. 

"Mary,"  she  queried,  as  the  still-room  maid  came  through 
the  bower,  "where  is  Master  Tomaso?" 

"In  his  study,  I  think,"  Mary  answered.  "Shall  I  call 
him*?" 

"Nay — I  thought "  Fhilippa  left  the  sentence  unfin- 
ished and  folded  her  work;  then  she  climbed  the  narrow  stair. 
When  the  Queen  turned  and  saw  her  she  was  standing  with  her 
slim  hands  resting  on  the  battlement. 

"What   are   you   doing   away    from   your  tapestry-frame, 


THE  HERBALIST'S  BREW  213 

wench*?"  demanded  her  mistress.  "Are  you  spying  on  me 
again*?" 

"Your  Grace,"  Philippa  answered  gently,  "I  could  never 
spy  on  you — not  even  if  my  own  father  wished  it.  I — I  was 
talking  with  Master  Tomaso  last  night,  and  he  said  strange 
things  about  the  stars.     I  would  you  could  have  heard  him." 

The  Queen  laughed  scornfully.  "As  if  it  were  not  enough 
to  be  prisoned  in  four  walls,  the  girl  wants  to  believe  herself 
the  puppet  of  the  heavens  I  Look  you,  silly  pigeon,  if  there 
be  a  Plantagenet  star  you  may  well  fear  it,  for  brother  hates 
brother  and  all  hate  their  father — and  belike  will  hate  their 
children.    Were  you  asking  him  the  day  of  my  death*?" 

"I  was  but  asking  what  flowers  belonged  to  the  figures  of 
the  zodiac  in  my  tapestry,"  answered  Philippa.  "He  says  that 
a  man  may  rule  the  stars." 

"I  wish  that  a  woman  could,"  mocked  the  Queen.  "How 
you  silly  creatures  can  go  on,  sticking  the  needle  in  and  out,  in 
and  out,  day  after  day,  I  cannot  see.  One  would  think  that 
you  were  weavers  of  Fate.  I  had  rather  cast  myself  over  the 
battlements  than  look  forward  to  thirty  years  of  stitchery!" 
She  swept  her  trailing  robes  about  her  and  vanished  down  the 
stairs.  Philippa,  following,  saw  with  a  certain  relief  that  she 
turned  toward  the  rooms  occupied  by  old  Tomaso.  The  phy- 
sician was  equal  to  most  situations.  Yet  in  the  Queen's  present 
mood  anything  might  arouse  her  anger. 

The  study  was  of  a  quaint,  bare  simplicity  in  furnishing. 
It  had  a  chair,  a  stool,  a  bench  under  the  window,  a  table  piled 
with  leather-bound  books,  a  large  chest  and  a  small  one,  an 
old  worm-eaten  oaken  dresser  with  some  flasks  and  dishes.  A 
door  led  into  the  laboratory,  and  another  into  the  cell  where 


214  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

the  philosopher  slept.  As  the  Queen  entered  he  rose  and  with 
grave  courtesy  offered  her  his  chair,  which  she  did  not  take. 
She  stood  looking  out  across  the  quiet  hills,  and  pressed  one 
hand  and  then  the  other  against  her  cheeks — then  she  turned, 
a  dark  figure  against  the  stormy  sky. 

"They  say  that  you  know  all  medicine,"  she  flung  out  at 
him.  "Have  you  any  physic  for  a  wasted  soul*?"  With  a 
fierce  gesture  she  pointed  at  the  half-open  door.  "Why  do  you 
stay  in  this  dull  sodden  England — you  who  are  free'?" 

"There  are  times,  your  Grace,"  the  physician  replied  tran- 
quilly, "when  I  forget  whether  this  is  England  or  Venetia." 

The  Queen  moved  restlessly  about  the  room,  and  stopped 
to  look  at  an  herbal.  "Will  you  teach  me  the  properties  of 
plants?"  she  asked,  as  she  turned  the  pages  carelessly.  "  With 
Mary's  help  we  might  make  here  an  herb-garden.  It  is  well 
to  know  the  noxious  plants  from  the  wholesome,  lest — unin- 
tentionally— one  should  put  the  wrong  flavor  in  a  draught." 

Tomaso  had  seen  persons  in  this  frame  of  mind  before.  He 
had  taught  many  pupils  the  properties  of  plants,  but  he  had 
his  own  ways  of  doing  it.  In  his  native  city  of  Padua  and 
elsewhere,  there  were  chemists  who  owed  their  fame  to  the 
number  of  poisons  they  understood. 

"I  have  some  experiments  in  hand  which  may  interest  your 
Grace,"  he  answered.  "If  you  will  come  into  my  poor  studio 
you  shall  see  them."  He  led  the  way  into  the  inner  chamber 
where  no  one  was  ever  allowed  to  come.  The  walls  were  lined 
with  shelves  on  which  stood  jars,  flasks,  mortars  and  other 
utensils  whose  use  the  Queen  could  not  guess.  Tomaso  did  not 
warn  her  not  to  touch  any  flask.  She  handled,  sniffed  and  all 
but  tasted.    She  finally  went  so  far  as  to  pour  a  small  quantity 


TOMASO   SEEMED   NOT  TO   HAVE   SEEN   HER  ACTION 


2i6  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

of  an  unsensational-looking  fluid  into  a  glass,  and  a  drop  fell 
on  the  edge  of  her  mantle,  in  whieh  it  burned  a  clean  hole. 

Tomaso  was  pouring  something  into  a  bowl  from  a  retort, 
and  seemed  not  to  have  seen  the  action.  Then  he  added  a 
pinch  of  a  colorless  powder,  and  dip[)ed  a  skein  of  silk  into  the 
bowl.  It  came  out  ruby-red.  Another  pinch  of  powder,  an- 
other bath,  and  it  .was  like  a  handful  of  iris  petals.  Other  ex- 
periments gave  emerald  like  rain-wet  leaves  in  sunlight,  gold 
like  the  pale  outer  petals  of  asphodels,  ripe  glowing  orange, 
blue  like  the  Mediterranean.  Then  suddenly  the  light  in  the 
stone-arched  window  was  darkened  and  thunder  crashed  over- 
head. The  little  brazier  in  the  far  comer  glowed  like  a  red 
eye,  and  Tomaso  had  to  light  a  horn  lantern  before  the  Queen 
could  see  her  way  out  of  the  room. 

"We  shall  have  to  wait,  now,  until  after  the  storm,"  he  said, 
as  he  led  the  way  into  the  outer  room.  "I  am  making  these 
experiments  for  the  benefit  of  a  company  of  weavers  whom  a 
young  friend  of  mine  has  brought  here.  The  young  man — 
he  is  a  wool-merchant — has  an  idea  that  we  can  weave  tapestry 
here  as  well  as  they  can  in  Damascus  if  we  have  the  where- 
withal, and  I  said  that  I  would  attend  to  the  dyeing  of  the 
yarn." 

The  Queen  gave  a  contemptuous  little  laugh  and  sank  into 
the  great  chair.  "These  Saxons  I  I  think  they  are  born  with 
paws  instead  of  hands  I  They  are  good  for  nothing  but  to 
herd  cattle  and  plow  and  reap.  Do  your  stars  tell  you  foolish 
tales  like  that.  Master  Tomaso*?" 

"I  did  not  ask  them,"  said  the  old  man  tranquilly.  "I  use 
my  eyes  when  I  can.  The  weavers  are  Flemish,  and  I  see  no 
cause  why  they  should  not  weave  as  good  cloth  here  as  they 


THE  HERBALIST'S  BREW  217 

did  at  home.  They  had  English  wool  there,  and  they  will 
have  it  here.  There  is  a  Spaniard  among  them,  and  I  do  not 
know  what  he  will  do  when  the  chilly  rains  come,  poor  imp. 
He  does  not  like  anything  in  England,  as  it  is." 

"Poor  imp  I"  the  Queen  repeated.  "How  do  these  weavers 
come  here,  so  far  from  any  town^" 

"Well,  they  came  like  most  folk,  because  they  had  to  come," 
smiled  the  Paduan.  "The  English  weavers  are  inclined  to  be 
jealous  folk,  and  they  took  the  view  that  these  Flemings  were 
foreigners  and  had  no  right  within  London  Wall — or  outside 
it  either,  for  they  were  in  a  lane  somewhere  about  Mile  End. 
Jealousy  fed  also  on  their  success  in  their  work — it  was  far 
superior  to  anything  London  looms  can  do.  And  certain  deal- 
ers in  fine  cloth  saw  their  profits  threatened,  and  so  did  the 
Florentine  importers.  What  with  one  thing  and  another  Cor- 
nelys  Bat  and  his  people  had  to  leave  the  city,  or  lose  all  that 
they  possessed.  The  reasons  were  as  mixed  as  the  threads  of 
a  tapestry,  but  that  is  the  way  with  life." 

"And  why  are  you  wasting  time  on  them?"  the  Queen  de- 
manded. 

"My  motives  are  also  mixed,"  answered  the  old  man.  "Be- 
ing myself  an  alien  in  a  strange  land,  I  had  sympathy  for  them 
— especially  Cimarron,  the  imp.  Also  it  is  interesting  to  work 
in  a  new  field,  and  I  have  never  done  much  with  dyestuft's.  I 
sometimes  feel  like  a  child  gathering  bright  pebbles  on  the 
shore;  each  one  seems  brighter  than  the  last.  But  really,  I 
think  I  work  because  I  dislike  to  spend  my  time  in  things 
which  will  not  live  after  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  these 
Flemish  weavers  come  here  in  colonies,  teaching  their  art  to 
such  English  as  can  learn,  it  will  bring  this  land  independence 


2i8  IN  THE  DAYS  OF   THE  GUILD 

and  wealth  in  years  to  conic.  There  is  plenty  of  pasturage  for 
shee{),  and  wool  needs  much  labor  to  make  it  fit  for  human  use. 
Kdrupt,  the  merchant — his  wife  is  one  of  your  women,  by  the 
way — says  that  this  one  craft  of  weaving  will  make  cities 
stronger  than  anything  else.  And  that  will  disturb  some 
people." 

The  Queen's  eyes  flashed  with  wicked  amusement.  She  had 
heard  the  King  rail  to  his  barons  upon  the  impudence  of  Lon- 
don. She  knew  that  those  who  invaded  London  privilege 
came  poorly  out  of  it. 

"Barbara's  husband,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "I  did  not 
know  that  he  was  a  merchant — I  thought  he  was  one  of  these 
clod-hopping  farmers." 

Tomaso  did  not  enlighten  her.  Curiosity  is  the  mother  of 
knowledge.  He  peered  out  at  his  fast-filling  cisterns.  "This 
rain-water,"  he  observed,  "will  be  excellent  for  my  dye- 
stuffs." 

The  Queen  gave  a  little  light  laugh.  "The  heavens  roar 
anathema  maranatha,"  she  cried,  "and  the  philosopher  says, 
'I  will  fill  my  tubs.'  You  seem  to  be  assured  that  the  powers 
above  are  devoted  to  your  service." 

"It  is  as  well,"  smiled  the  physician,  "to  have  them  to  your 
aid  if  possible.  Some  men  have  a — positive  genius — for  being 
on  the  wrong  side.  The  growth  of  a  people  is  like  the  growth 
of  a  vine.    It  will  not  twine  contrary  to  nature." 

"But  these  are  not  your  people,"  the  Queen  persisted.  "No 
one  will  know  who  did  the  work  you  are  doing." 

"Cornelys  Bat  the  tapissier  told  me,"  Tomaso  answered, 
"that  no  one  knows  now  who  it  was  who  set  the  foot  at  work 
by  tipping  the  loom  over,  and  separated  the  warp  threads  by 


THE  HERBALIST'S  BREW  219 

two  treadles.     Yet  that  changed  the  whole  rule  of  weaving." 

'T  have  a  mind  to  see  this  tapestry,"  announced  Eleanor 
abruptly.  "Tell  your  Cat,  or  Rat,  or  Bat,  whatever  his  name 
is,  to  bring  his  looms  here.  If  he  works  well  we  will  have 
something  for  our  walls  besides  this  everlasting  embroidery. 
I  have  watched  Philippa  working  the  histories  of  the  saints  this 
six  months, — I  believe  she  has  all  the  eleven  thousand  virgins 
of  Saint  Ursula  to  march  along  the  wall.  I  am  ready  to  burn 
a  candle  to  Saint  Attila." 

Tomaso's  eyes  twinkled.  That  friendly  twinkle  went  far 
to  unlock  the  Queen's  confidence.  "Here  am  I,"  she  went  on 
impetuously,  "mewed  up  here  like  a  clipped  goose  that  hears 
the  cry  of  the  flock.  If  there  is  another  Crusade  I  would  joy- 
fully set  forth  as  a  man-at-arms,  but  belike  I  shall  never  even 
hear  of  it.  I  warrant  you  Richard  will  lead  a  host  to  Jeru- 
salem some  day — and  I  shall  not  be  there  to  see." 

The  Paduan  lifted  one  long  finger.  "You  fret  because  you 
are  strong  and  see  far.  Your  descendants  may  rule  Europe. 
The  Plantagenets  are  a  building  race.  You  can  lay  founda- 
tions for  kings  of  the  years  to  come.  You  have  here  the  chance 
of  knowing  this  people,  whom  none  of  your  race  did  ever 
know  truly.  Your  tiring  women,  the  men  who  till  these  fields 
and  live  b)^  their  toil,  the  churchmen,  the  traders — knowing 
them  you  know  the  kingdom.  Bend  j^our  wit  and  will  to  rule 
the  stars,  madam.  Thus  you  bring  wisdom  out  of  ill-hap,  and 
in  that  way  only  can  a  King  be  secure." 

The  Queen  sat  silent,  chin  in  hand,  her  eyes  searching  the 
shadows  of  the  room,  for  the  storm  had  passed  and  twilight 
was  falling.  "Gramercy  for  your  sermon,  Master  Tomasc," 
she  said  at  last,  as  she  rose  to  leave  the  room.     "Some  day 


220  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Henry  will  see  that  it  was  not  I  who  taught  the  Plantagenets 
to  quarrel.  Send  for  your  tapissiers  to-morrow,  and  I  will 
study  weaving  for  a  day," 

To  the  comfort  of  all,  the  Queen  was  in  a  gay  humor  that 
evening.  The  carved  ivory  chessmen  were  brought  out,  and 
as  she  watched  Ranulph  and  Philippa  in  the  mimic  war-game 
Eleanor  pondered  over  the  recent  betrothal  of  Princess  Joan 
to  the  King  of  Sicily.  "Women,"  she  muttered,  "are  only 
pawns  on  a  man's  chessboard." 

"Aye,"  laughed  Ranulph,  as  his  white  knight  retreated,  "but 
your  Grace  may  remember  that  the  pawn  when  it  comes  to 
Queen  may  win  the  game." 

The  bulky  loom  of  Cornelys  Bat  was  set  up  next  morning 
in  the  old  hall,  and  the  Queen  came  down  to  watch  the  strange, 
complex,  curious  task.  Then  she  would  take  the  shuttle  her- 
self and  try  it,  and  to  the  surprise  of  every  one,  kept  at  the 
task  until  she  might  well  have  challenged  a  journeyman. 
While  the  threads  interlaced  and  shifted  in  a  rainbow  maze 
her  mind  was  traveling  strange  pathways.  The  shuttle,  flung 
to  and  fro  in  deft  strong  skill,  was  not  like  the  needle  with  its 
maddening  stitch  after  stitch,  and  there  was  no  petty  chatter 
in  the  room.  The  Flemish  weaver  might  be  silent,  but  he  was 
not  stupid,  and  the  drawboy,  the  dusky  youth  with  the  coarse 
black  hair,  was  like  a  wild  panther-cub.  Such  a  blend  as  these 
weaving-folk,  brought  together  by  one  aim,  could  teach  the 
arbitrary  barons  their  place.  Normandy,  Aquitaine,  Anjou, 
Brittany, — England,  Scotland,  Ireland,  Wales — what  a  web 
of  Empire  they  would  make!  And  if  into  the  dull  russet  and 
gray  of  this  England  there  came  a  vivid  young  life  like  her 
Richard's — yellow  hair,  sea-blue  eyes,  gay  daring,  impulsive 


THE  HERBALIST'S  BREW  22i 

gallantry — and  under  all  the  stern  fiber  of  the  Norman — what 
kind  of  a  tapestry  would  that  be?  Thus,  as  women  have  done 
through  the  centuries,  Eleanor  of  Aquitaine  let  her  mind  play 
about  her  fingers. 

After  a  while  she  left  the  work  to  the  weavers  and  watched 
Mary  Lavender  making  dyestuffs  under  Tomaso's  direction. 
It  was  fascinating  to  try  for  a  color  and  make  it  come  to  a 
shade.  It  was  yet  more  so  to  make  new  combinations  and  see 
what  happened.  Red  and  green  dulled  each  other.  A  touch 
of  orange  made  scarlet  more  brilliant.  Lavender  might  be 
deepened  to  royal  violet  or  paled  to  the  purple-gray  of  ashes. 
The  yarns,  as  the  skillful  Flemings  handled  them,  were  better 
than  any  gold  thread,  and  the  gorgeous  blossom-hues  of  the 
wools  were  like  an  Eastern  carpet. 

Presently  the  Queen  began  devising  a  set  of  hangings  for  a 
State  bedchamber,  the  pictures  to  be  scenes  from  the  life  of 
Charlemagne — the  suggested  comparison  of  this  monarch  with 
the  King  had  its  point.  An  Irish  monk-bred  lad  with  a  knack 
at  catching  likenesses  came  by,  and  made  the  designs,  under 
Queen  Eleanor's  direction;  and  during  this  undertaking  she 
learned  much  concerning  the  state  of  Ireland.  That  ended 
and  the  weaving  begun,  she  took  to  questioning  Cimarron  the 
drawboy. 

"I  suppose,"  she  jibed,  "men  grow  like  that  they  live  by,  or 
you  would  never  have  been  driven  out  of  London  like  sheep. 
I  may  become  lamblike  myself  some  day." 

Cimarron's  white  teeth  gleamed.  "I  would  not  say  that  we 
went  like  sheep,"  he  retorted,  and  he  told  the  story  of  their 
going.     "There  were  the  old  folk  and  the  little  ones,  your 


222  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Grace,"  he  ended.  "The  master  cares  for  his  own  people, 
and  his  work.    He  does  not  heed  other  folk's  opinions." 

The  Queen  laughed  gleefully.  "I  wish  I  had  been  at  that 
hunting — the  wolves  driven  b)^  their  quarry.  My  faith,  a 
weaver's  beam  is  not  such  a  bad  weapon  after  all." 

More  than  ten  years  after,  when  Richard  I.  was  crowned 
King  of  England,  one  of  his  first  acts  was  to  make  his  mother 
regent  in  his  absence.  It  was  she  who  raised  the  money  to 
outbid  Philip  of  France  when  Cceur  de  Lion  was  to  be  ran- 
somed. As  one  historian  has  said,  she  displayed  qualities  then 
and  later,  which  prove  that  she  spent  her  days  in  something 
besides  needlework.  She  did  not  stay  long  at  King's  Barton, 
but  one  of  Cornelys  Bat's  tapestries  was  always  known  as  the 
Queen's  Maze.  In  one  way  and  another  during  the  sixteen 
years  of  her  captivity  she  learned  nearly  all  that  there  was  to 
know  of  the  temper  of  the  people  and  the  nature  of  the  land. 


"'^;:;;;;^         "^^^         "Xl^  "^C^         ""^^Ci:^         ""^^N^^ 


THE  MARIONETTES 


THE  MARIONETTES 

After  the  council  comes  the  feast — and  then 
Jongleurs  and  minstrels,  and  the  sudden  song 
That  wakes  the  trumpets  and  the  din  of  war,— 
But  now  the  Caesar's  mood  is  for  a  jest. 

Fellow — you  juggler  with  the  puppet-show. 
The  Emperor  permits  you  to  come  in. 
Ah,  yes, — the  five  wise  virgins — very  fair. 
There  certainly  can  be  no  harm  in  that. 
The  bride,  methinks,  is  somewhat  like  Matilda, 
Wife  of  Duke  Henry  whom  they  call  the  Lion. 
Aye,  to  be  sure — the  little  hoods  and  cloaks 
All  tricked  out  with  the  arms  of  Saxony. 
This  way — be  brisk  now — to  the  banquet-hall. 

'Tis  clever — here  come  bride  and  bride-maidens 

With  lights  in  silvern  lanterns.     Very  good. 

Milan  had  puppet-shows,  but  none,  I  venture, 

So  well  set  forth  as  this.  .  .  .  No  Lombard  here, 

He  speaks  pure  French.     Aha,  the  jester  comes ! 

A  biting  satire,  yes,  a  merry  jape, — 

The  Bear  that  aped  the  Lion !     A  good  song, 

'Twill  please  the  Saxon,  surely.    Now,  what  next? 

Here  come  the  foolish  virgins  all  array'd 

In  mourning  veils,  with  little  lamps  revers'd. 

The  merchant  will  not  sell  them  any  oil. 

The  jester  mocks  them  and  the  monk  rebukes  them,- 

A  shrewd  morality.     Aye, — loyalty. 

Truth,  kindliness  and  mercy,  and  wise  judgment 


Are  the  live  precious  oils  to  light  a  throne. 
A  pretty  compliment,  a  well-turned  phrase! 
Woe  to  the  foolish  Virgins  of  the  Ix)mbards 
If  we  find  lamps  unlighted  on  our  way ! 
Then  surely  will  the  door  of  hope  shut  fast 
And  in  that  outer  darkness  will  be  heard 
Weeping  and  howling.  .  .  .  So,  is  that  the  end? 

Hark,  fellow,  you  have  pleased  the  Emperor, 
This  ring's  the  token.    Take  a  message  now 
That  may  be  spoken  by  your  wooden  King, — 
The  master-mind  regards  all  Christendom 
As  but  a  puppet-show, — he  pulls  the  strings, 
The  others  act  and  speak  to  suit  his  book, — 
Aye,  truly,  a  most  excellent  puppet-show! 


XVIII 
THE    HURER'S    LODGERS 

HOW    THE    POPPET    OF    JOAN,    THE    DAUGHTER    OF    THE    CAP- 
MAKER, WENT  TO  COURT  AND  KEPT  A  SECRET 

JOAN,  the  little  daughter  of  the  hurer,  sat  on  a  three- 
legged  stool  in  the  corner  of  her  father's  shop,  nursing 
her  baby.  It  was  not  much  of  a  baby,  being  only  a  piece 
of  wood  with  a  knob  on  the  end.  But  the  shop  was  not 
much  of  a  shop.  Gilles  the  hurer  was  a  cripple,  and  it  was  all 
that  he  could  do  to  give  Joan  and  her  mother  a  roof  over  their 
heads.  They  had  sometimes  two  meals  a  day;  oftener  one; 
occasionally  none  at  all. 

If  he  could  have  made  hats  and  caps  like  those  which  he 
used  to  make  when  he  was  a  tradesman  in  Milan,  every  sort  of 
fine  goods  would  have  come  into  the  shop.  In  processions  and 
pageants,  at  banquets,  weddings,  betrothals,  christenings, 
funerals,  on  every  occasion  in  life,  the  people  wore  headgear 
which  helped  to  make  the  picture.  The  fashion  of  a  man's  hat 
suited  his  position  in  life.  Details  and  decorations  varied 
more  or  less,  but  the  styles  very  seldom  did.  Velvet  and  fur 
were  allowed  only  to  persons  of  a  certain  dignity;  hats  were 
made  to  show  embroidery,  which  might  be  of  gold  thread  and 
jeweled.  Merchants  wore  a  sort  of  hood  with  a  long  loose 
crown  which  could  be  used  as  a  pocket.     This  protected  the 

227 


228  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

neck  ancl  ears  on  a  journey,  and  had  a  lining  of  wool,  fur,  or 
lambskin.  Court  ladies  wore  hoods  of  velvet,  silk  or  fine  cloth 
for  traveling.  At  any  formal  social  affair  a  lady  wore  some 
ornamental  head-dress  with  a  veil  which  she  could  draw  over 
her  face.  The  wimple,  usually  worn  by  elderly  women,  was  a 
scarf  of  fine  linen  thrown  over  the  head,  brought  closely  around 
the  throat  and  chin,  and  held  by  a  fillet.  In  later  and  more 
luxurious  and  splendid  times,  the  cone-shaped  and  crescent- 
shaped  head-dresses  came  in. 

Hats  were  not  common  in  the  twelfth  century.  The  hair 
fell  in  carefully  arranged  curls,  long  braids  or  loose  tresses  on 
the  shoulders;  the  face  was  framed  in  delicate  veils  of  silk  or 
sendal,  kept  in  place  by  a  chaplet  of  flowers  or  a  coronet  of 
gold.  Every  maiden  learned  to  weave  garlands  in  set  patterns, 
and  could  make  a  wreath  in  any  one  of  several  given  styles,  for 
her  own  hair  or  for  decorating  a  building.  Red,  green  and 
blue  were  the  colors  most  often  used  in  dress,  and  on  any  festi- 
val day  the  company  presented  a  very  gay  appearance. 

Gilles,  however,  was  obliged  to  confine  himself  to  the  mak- 
ing of  hures  or  rough  woolen  caps  for  common  men.  He  had 
no  apprentices,  although  his  wife  and  daughter  sometimes 
helped  him.  His  shop  was  a  corner  of  a  very  old  building 
most  of  which  had  been  burned  in  a  great  London  fire.  It  was 
the  oldest  house  in  the  street  and  was  roofed  with  stone,  which 
probably  saved  it.  The  ends  of  the  beams  in  the  wall  fitted 
into  sockets  in  other  beams,  and  were  set  straight,  crooked  or 
diagonally  without  any  apparent  plan.  Two  or  three  hundred 
years  before,  when  the  house  was  built,  the  space  between  the 
timbers  had  been  filled  in  with  interlaced  branches,  over  which 
mud  was  plastered  on  in  thick  coats.    This  made  the  kind  of 


THE  HUKER'S  LODGERS  229 

wall  known  as  "wattle  and  daub."  It  was  not  very  scientific 
in  appearance,  but  it  was  weather-proof.  As  there  was  no 
fireplace  or  hearth,  the  family  kept  warm — when  it  could — 
by  means  of  an  iron  brazier  filled  with  coals.  Cooking — when 
they  had  anything  to  cook — was  done  over  the  brazier  in  a 
chafing-dish,  or  in  a  tiny  stone  fireplace  outside  the  rear  wall, 
made  of  scattered  stones  by  Joan's  mother. 

Gilles  was  a  Norman,  but  he  had  been  born  in  Sicily,  which 
had  been  conquered  by  the  Norman  adventurer  Guiscard  long 
before.  He  had  gone  to  Milan  when  a  youth,  and  there  he 
had  met  Joan's  mother — and  stayed.  The  luxury  of  Lombard 
cities  made  any  man  who  could  manufacture  handsome  cloth- 
ing sure  of  a  living.  "Milaner  and  Mantua-Maker"  on  a  sign 
above  a  shop  centuries  later  meant  a  shop  where  one  could  find 
the  latest  fashions.  Gilles  was  prosperous  and  happy,  and  his 
little  girl  was  just  learning  to  walk,  when  the  siege  of  Milan 
put  an  end  to  everything.  He  came  to  London  crippled  from 
a  wound  and  palsied  from  fever  and  set  about  finding  work. 

They  might  have  starved  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  Florentine 
artist,  Matteo,  who  was  also  a  stranger  in  London,  but  had 
all  that  he  could  do.  He  lodged  for  a  year  in  the  solar  cham- 
ber, as  the  room  above  the  shop  was  called.  Poor  as  their 
shelter  was,  it  had  this  room  to  spare.  Matteo  paid  his  way  in 
more  than  money;  he  improved  the  house.  He  understood 
plaster  work,  and  covered  the  inner  walls  with  a  smooth 
creamy  mixture  which  made  a  beautiful  surface  for  pictures. 
On  this  fair  and  spotless  plaster  he  made  studies  of  what  he 
saw  day  by  day,  drawing,  painting,  painting  out  and  making 
new  studies  as  he  certainly  could  not  have  done  had  he  been 
lodged  in  a  palace.     All  along  two  sides  of  the  shop  was  a 


230  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

procession  of  dignitaries  in  the  most  gorgeous  of  holida)'  robes. 
In  the  chamber  above  were  portraits  of  the  King  and  Queen, 
the  Bisliop  of  London,  Prior  Hagno  preaching  to  a  crowd  at 
Bartlemy  Fair,  some  of  the  chief  men  of  the  government,  and 
animals  wild  and  tame.  He  told  Joan  stories  about  the  paint- 
ings, and  these  walls  were  the  only  picture-books  that  she  had. 

Then  they  sheltered  a  smooth-spoken  Italian  called 
Giuseppe,  who  nearly  got  them  into  terrible  trouble.  He  not 
only  never  paid  a  penny,  but  barely  escaped  the  officers  of  the 
law,  who  asked  a  great  many  questions  about  him  and  how 
they  came  to  harbor  him.  After  that  they  made  it  a  rule  not 
to  take  any  one  in  unless  he  was  recommended  by  some  one 
they  knew.    It  was  worse  to  go  to  prison  than  to  be  hungry. 

One  day,  when  Gilles  had  just  been  {)aid  for  some  work 
done  for  IMaster  Nicholas  Gay,  the  rich  merchant,  a  slender, 
dark-eyed  youth  with  a  workman's  pack  on  his  shoulder  came 
and  asked  for  a  room.  Hardly  had  Joan  called  her  mother 
when  the  stranger  reeled  and  fell  unconscious  on  the  floor  of 
the  shop.  He  did  not  know  where  he  was  or  who  he  was  for 
days.  They  remembered  Giuseppe  and  were  dubious,  but  they 
kept  him  and  tended  him  until  he  was  able  to  talk.  His  tools 
and  his  hands  showed  him  to  be  a  wood-carver,  and  his  dress 
was  foreign.  His  illness  was  something  like  what  used  to  be 
called  ship-fever,  due  to  the  hard  conditions  of  long  voyages, 
in  wooden  ships  not  too  clean. 

When  their  guest  was  able  to  talk  he  told  them  that  he  was 
Quentin,  a  wood-carver  of  Peronne.  He  had  met  Matteo  in 
Messina  and  thus  heard  of  this  lodging.  He  had  come  to 
London  to  work  at  the  oaken  stalls  of  the  Bishop  of  Ely's 
private  chapel  in  Holborn.     These  stalls,  or  choir-seats,  in  a 


THE  HURER'S  LODGERS  231 

Gothic  church  were  designed  to  suit  the  stately  high-arched 
building.  Their  straight  tall  backs  were  carved  in  wood,  and 
the  arm-rests  ended  in  an  ornament  called  a  finial.  Often  no 
two  stalls  were  alike,  and  yet  the  different  designs  were  shaped 
to  fit  the  general  style,  so  that  the  effect  was  uniform.  The 
carving  of  one  pair  of  arms  might  be  couchant  lions;  on  the 
next,  leopards;  on  the  next,  hounds,  and  so  on.  The  seats 
were  usually  hinged  and  could  be  raised  when  not  in  use. 
The  under  side  of  the  seat,  which  then  formed  part  of  all  this 
elaborate  show  of  decoration,  was  most  often  carved  with 
grotesque  little  squat  figures  of  any  sort  that  occurred  to  the 
artist.  Here  Noah  stuck  his  head  out  of  a  nutshell  Ark ;  there 
a  woman  belabored  her  husband  for  breaking  a  jug;  on  the 
next  stall  might  be  three  solemn  monkeys  making  butter  in  a 
churn.  Quentin's  fancy  was  apt  to  run  to  little  wood-goblins, 
mermaids,  crowned  lizards,  fauns,  and  flying  ships.  He  came 
from  a  country  where  the  forests  are  full  of  fairy-tales. 

Joan  would  be  very  sorry  to  have  Ouentin  go  away.  She 
was  thinking  of  this  as  she  sat  in  the  twilight  nursing  her 
wooden  poppet.  When  he  came  in  at  last  he  had  his  tools 
with  him,  and  a  piece  of  fine  hard  wood  about  two  feet  long. 
Seating  himself  on  a  bench  he  lit  the  betty  lamp  on  the  wall, 
and  laying  out  his  knives  and  gouges  he  began  to  carve  a  face 
on  the  wood. 

Joan  could  not  imagine  what  he  was  making,  and  she 
watched  intently.  The  face  grew  into  that  of  a  charming 
little  lady,  with  eyes  crinkled  as  if  they  laughed,  and  a  dimple 
in  her  firm  chin.  The  hair  waved  over  the  round  head;  the 
neck  was  as  softly  curved  as  a  pigeon's.  The  gown  met  in  a 
V  shape  at  the  throat,  with  a  bead  necklace  carved  above. 


232  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

There  was  a  close-fitting  bodice,  with  sleeves  that  came  down 
over  the  wrists  and  wrinkled  into  folds,  and  a  loose  over- 
sleeve that  came  to  the  elbow.  The  skirt  fell  in  straight  folds 
and  there  was  a  little  ornamental  border  in  a  daisy  pattern 
around  the  hem.  When  the  statuette  was  finished  and  set  up, 
it  was  like  a  court  lady  made  small  by  enchantment. 

"There  is  a  poppet  for  thee,  small  one,"  Ouentin  said 
smiling. 

Joan's  hands  clasped  tight  and  her  eyes  grew  big  and  dark. 
"For  me?"  she  cried. 

"It  is  a  poor  return  for  the  kindness  that  I  have  had  in  this 
house,"  answered  Quentin  brushing  the  chips  into  the  brazier. 

The  poppet  seemed  to  bring  luck  to  the  hurer's  household. 
Through  Gilles,  Master  Gay  had  heard  of  Quentin's  work, 
and  he  ordered  a  coffret  for  his  wife,  and  a  settle.  The  arms 
of  the  settle  were  to  be  carved  with  little  lady-figures  like 
Joan's,  and  Master  Gay  asked  if  they  could  not  all  be  portraits 
of  Princesses.  Joan's  own  poppet  was  named  Marguerite  for 
the  daughter  of  the  French  King,  who  had  married  the  eldest 
son  of  Henry  II.  Ouentin  had  copied  the  face  from  Matteo's 
sketch  upon  the  wall,  and  in  one  room  or  the  other  were  all  the 
other  members  of  the  royal  family.  But  as  it  would  not  be 
suitable  to  show  Queens  and  Princesses  upholding  the  arms 
of  a  chair  in  the  house  of  a  London  merchant,  Quentin  sug- 
gested that  they  change  the  design,  and  use  the  leopards  of 
Anjou  for  the  arms,  while  the  statuettes  of  the  Princesses  were 
ranged  along  the  top  of  the  high  back.  There  could  be  five 
open-work  arches  with  a  figure  in  each,  and  plain  linen-fold 
paneling  below.  Where  the  carving  needed  a  flower  or  so 
he  would  put  alternately  the  lilies  of  France  and  the  sprig  of 


THE  HUKER'S  LODGERS  233 

broom  which  was  the  badge  of  the  Plantagenets.  Thus  the 
piece  of  carving  would  commemorate  the  fact  that  the  family 
of  the  King  of  England  was  related  to  nearly  every  royal  house 
in  Europe  through  marriage.    It  would  be  a  picture-chronicle. 

In  the  middle  arch  was  Marguerite,  who  would  be  Queen 
of  England  some  day  if  her  husband  lived.  At  her  right  hand 
was  Constance  of  Brittany,  wife  of  Geoffrey,  who  through  her 
would  inherit  that  province.  The  other  figures  were  Eleanor, 
who  was  married  to  Alfonso,  King  of  Castile;  Matilda,  who 
was  the  wife  of  Henry  the  Lion,  Duke  of  Saxony,  the  most 
powerful  vassal  of  the  Gennan  Emperor;  and  Joan,  the  young- 
est, betrothed  to  William,  called  the  Good,  King  of  Sicily. 

"There  will  be  two  more  princesses  some  day,"  said  Joan, 
cuddling  Marguerite  in  her  arms  as  she  watched  Ouentin's  deft 
strokes.  "Prince  Richard  is  not  married  yet,  and  neither  is 
Prince  John." 

"The  work  cannot  wait  for  that,  little  one,"  Ouentin  an- 
swered laughing.  "Richard  is  only  sixteen,  and  John  still 
younger.  Yet  they  do  say  that  the  King  is  planning  an  alli- 
ance with  Princess  Alois  of  France  for  Richard,  and  is  in 
treaty  with  Hubert  the  Duke  of  Maurienne  for  his  daughter  to 
wed  with  John.  I  think,  myself,  that  Richard  will  choose 
his  own  bride." 

Joan  said  nothing,  but  in  her  own  mind  she  thought  it 
would  be  most  unpleasant  to  be  married  off  like  that,  by  ar- 
rangements made  years  before. 

"The  marriage  with  Hubert's  daughter,"  Quentin  added 
half  to  himself,  "would  keep  open  the  way  into  Italy  if  it 
were  needed.  It  is  a  bad  thing  to  have  an  enemy  blocking 
your  gate." 


234  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Although  her  poppet  was  carved  so  that  the  small  out-held 
hands  and  arms  were  clear  of  the  body,  and  dresses  could  be 
fitted  over  them,  Joan  found  that  there  were  but  few  points 
or  edges  that  were  likely  to  be  chipped  off.  The  wood  was  well 
seasoned,  and  the  carvnig  followed  the  grain  most  cunningly. 
Neither  dampness  nor  wood-boring  insects  could  easily  get  into 
the  channels  where  sap  once  ran.  This  was  part  of  the  wisdom 
of  wood-carving. 

When  Joan  grew  too  old  to  play  with  her  poppet  she  some- 
times carried  her  to  some  fine  house  to  show  a  new  fashion, 
or  style  of  embroidery.  Marguerite  had  a  finer  wardrobe  than 
any  modem  doll,  for  the  little  hats,  hoods  and  head-dresses 
had  each  a  costume  to  go  with  it,  and  all  were  kept  in  a  chest 
Ouentin  had  made  for  her,  with  the  arms  of  Milan  on  the  lid. 
No  exiled  Milanese  ever  quite  gave  up  the  hope  that  some  day 
the  city  would  be  rebuilt  in  all  its  splendor,  and  the  foreign 
governors  driven  from  Lombardy.  Joan  used  to  hear  her 
father  talking  of  it  with  their  next  lodger,  Giovanni  Berga- 
motto,  who  was  a  peddler  at  fairs.  Gilles  had  had  steady  work 
for  a  long  time,  and  was  making  not  only  the  rough  caps  he 
used  to  make,  now  turned  out  by  an  apprentice,  but  fine  hats 
and  caps  for  the  wealthy.  A  carved  and  gilded  hat  swung 
before  the  door,  and  Joan  learned  embroidery  of  ever)^  kind. 
She  saw  Ouentin  now  and  then,  and  one  day  he  sent  word  to 
her,  by  the  wool-merchant  Robert  Edrupt,  that  Queen  Eleanor 
wished  to  see  the  newest  court  fashions,  and  that  Joan  might 
journey  with  Edrupt  and  his  wife  to  the  abbey  where  she  was 
living.  It  was  one  of  the  best  known  houses  in  England,  and 
the  Abbess  was  of  royal  blood.  It  was  not  at  all  unusual  for 
its  guest-rooms  to  be  occupied  by  Queens  and  Princesses. 


THE  HURER'S  LODGERS  235 

Ouentin  had  been  sent  there  to  do  some  work  for  the  Abbey, 
and  in  that  way  the  Queen,  through  Philippa,  her  maid  of 
honor,  had  heard  of  Joan. 

"I  suppose  it  is  a  natural  desire  in  a  woman,"  Master  Edrupt 
said  when  they  talked  of  the  matter,  "but  somehow  I  would 
stake  my  head  it  is  not  the  fashions  she  is  after." 

Barbara  his  wife  smiled  but  said  nothing.     She  agreed. 

When  Joan  had  modestly  shown  her  wares,  and  the  little 
wooden  court  lady  had  smiled  demurely  through  it  all,  the 
Queen  dandled  Marguerite  on  her  knee  and  thoughtfully 
looked  her  over. 

"The  face  is  surely  like  the  Princess  of  France,"  she  said. 
And  Joan  felt  more  than  ever  certain  that  there  was  a  reason 
for  this  interest  in  poppets. 

Later  in  the  day  she  found  out  what  it  was.  Quentin  was 
carving  other  little  lady-figures  like  those  he  had  made  years 
ago  for  Master  Gay.  He  had  also  made  the  figures  of  a 
Bishop,  a  King,  a  Monk,  and  a  Merchant;  with  a  grotesque 
hump-backed  hook-nosed  Dwarf  for  the  Jester.  It  looked 
as  if  a  giant  were  about  to  play  chess.  Padraig,  an  Irish 
scribe  who  had  made  some  designs  for  the  Queen's  tapestry- 
workers,  was  using  his  best  penmanship  to  copy  certain  letters 
on  fine  parchment.  Giovanni,  who  had  sprung  up  from  some- 
where, was  making  a  harness-like  contrivance  of  hempen  cords, 
iron  hooks  and  rods,  and  wooden  pulleys.  When  finished  it 
went  into  a  small  bag  of  tow-cloth;  if  stretched  out  it  filled 
the  end  of  a  rough  wooden  frame.  Joan  began  to  suspect  that 
the  figures  were  for  a  puppet-show. 

"It  is  time  to  explain,"  Quentin  said  to  the  others.  "We 
can  trust  Joan.    She  is  as  true  as  steel." 


236  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

Joan's  heart  leaped  with  pride.     If  Milan  had  only  honor 
left,  her  children  would  keep  that. 

"It  is  this,  Joan,"  Quentin  went  on  kindly.  "In  time  of 
war  any  messenger  may  be  searched,  and  we  do  not  know  when 
war  will  come.  King  Henry  desires  above  all  things  the  peace 
of  his  realm.  He  will  not  openly  take  the  side  of  the  Lombard 
cities  against  Frederick  Barbarossa — yet.  But  he  will  throw 
all  his  influence  into  the  scale  if  he  can.  The  Queen  has  hit 
upon  a  way  by  which  letters  can  be  sent  safely  to  the  courts 
of  Brittany,  France,  Castile,  Sicily,  and  even  to  Saxony,  which 
is  in  Barbarossa's  own  domains.  Giovanni  will  travel  as  a 
peddler,  with  the  weaver-boy  Cimarron  as  his  servant  or  com- 
panion, as  may  seem  best.  He  will  have  a  pack  full  of  such 
pretty  toys  as  maidens  love, — broidered  veils,  pomanders,  per- 
fumed gloves,  girdles — nothing  costly  enough  to  tempt  rob- 
bers-— and  these  wooden  poppets  of  ours.  We  cannot  trust  the 
tiring-women  in  times  like  these,  but  he  may  be  able  to  give 
the  letters  into  the  hands  of  the  Queens  themselves.  No  one, 
surely,  will  suspect  a  poppet.  These  gowns  and  wimples  will 
display  the  fashions,  and  I  had  another  reason  for  telling  you 
to  bring  them  all.  If  he  cannot  get  his  chance  as  a  peddler  he 
can  hang  about  the  court  with  a  puppet-show.  Now,  look 
here." 

Quentin  took  the  softly  smiling  poppet  and  began  to  twist 
her  neck.  When  he  had  unscrewed  the  dainty  little  head  a 
deep  hole  appeared  in  the  middle  of  the  figure.  Into  this 
Padraig  fitted  a  roll  of  parchment,  and  over  it  a  wooden  peg. 

"May  she  keep  it^"  Quentin  asked  gently.  "There  is  need 
for  haste,  and  I  have  not  time  to  make  another  figure." 


THE  HURER'S  LODGERS  237 

Joan  swallowed  hard.  Marguerite  had  heard  many  secrets 
that  no  one  else  knew.    "Aye,"  she  said,  "I  will  let  her  go." 

Then  each  little  figure  in  turn  received  its  secret  to  keep, 
and  Joan,  Lady  Philippa,  and  the  other  maids  sewed  furiously 
for  a  day  and  a  half.  Each  Princess  was  gowned  in  robes 
woven  with  the  arms  of  her  kingdom.  The  other  figures  were 
suitably  dressed.  The  weights  which  made  the  jester  turn  a 
somersault  were  gold  inside  a  lead  casing — Giovanni  might 
need  that.  There  were  jewels  hidden  safely  in  his  dagger-hilt 
and  Cimarron's,  but  to  all  appearance  they  were  two  common 
chapmen.  They  were  gone  for  a  long  time,  but  Marguerite — 
the  only  poppet  to  return — came  back  safely,  and  inside  her 
discreet  bosom  were  letters  for  the  King.  Cimarron  brought 
her  to  the  door  of  Gilles  the  hurer,  and  told  Joan  that  Gio- 
vanni, after  selling  the  puppet-show,  had  stayed  in  Alexandria 
to  fight  for  Milan. 


ARMORER'S  SONG 

By   the   armorer's   tower   the   fire   burned   bright 
In  the  long  black  shadows  of  coming  night. 
Quoth  Franklin  to  Tomkyn,  "Twenty  to  one 
We   shall   both   be   gone   ere   to-morrow's   sun — 
Shoot  a  round  for  the  love  o'  the  game !" 

By  Ascalon  towers  the  sun  blazed  red 
Where  one  stood  living  and  twenty  were  dead, — 
Quoth  Roger  to  Raimond,  "We  be  but  few, 
Yet  keener  the  triumph  when  steel  rings  true — 
Break  a  lance   for  the  Faith  and  the  Name  I" 

By  London  Tower  the  watch-fires  glowed 
On  the  troops  that  marched  by  the  Roman  Road. 
Quoth  Drake  to  Howard,  "Armadas  be  tall, 
Yet  the   proudest  oak  in   a   gale  may  fall, — 
Take  a  chance  for  Belphoebe's  fame !" 

They  live  in  \^alhalla  who  fought  for  their  land 
With  dauntless  heart  and  ungrudging  hand, 
They  went  to  the  task  with  a  laugh  and  a  jest, — 
Peace  to  their  souls,  wherever  they  rest ! 
And  we  of  their  blood,  wherever  we  go, 
By  the  Carib  Seas  or  the  Greenland  floe, 
With  heart  unwearied  and  hand  unstayed, 
Must  win  or  lose  by  the  law  they  made, — 
Strike  hard — for  the  love  o'  the  game!" 


XIX 

DICKON    AT    THE    FORGE 

HOW   A    SUSSEX   SMITH    FOUND   THE    WORLD   COME   TO   HIM    IN 

THE    WEALD 

THE  smithy  was  very  small  compared  with  a  modem 
foundry.  It  was  not  large  even  for  a  country  black- 
smith's shop;  the  cottage  close  by  was  hardly  bigger; 
yet  that  forge  made  iron-work  which  went  all  over 
England.  It  was  on  one  of  the  Sussex  roads  leading  into 
Lewes.  Often  a  knight  would  stop  to  have  something  done 
to  his  own  armor  or  his  horse's  gear,  for  the  war-horse  also 
wore  armor, — on  head  and  breast  at  least.  Some  of  the  work 
of  old  Adam  Smith  had  gone  as  far  as  Jerusalem.  Dickon  felt 
occasionally  that  if  he  were  a  spear-head  or  a  dagger,  he  would 
stand  more  chance  of  seeing  the  world  than  he  did  as  the  son 
of  his  father. 

Adam  was  secretly  proud  of  the  lad  who  at  thirteen  could 
do  nearly  as  much  as  he  himself  could.  That  was  saying  more 
than  a  little,  for  Adam  Smith  had  the  knack  of  making  every 
blow  count  by  putting  it  in  exactly  the  right  place.  A  man 
who  can  do  that  will  double  his  strength. 

Dickon  had  inherited  the  knack,  but  he  had  something  else 
besides,  of  which  his  father  knew  nothing.  He  never  did  a 
piece  of  work  that  he  did  not  try  to  make  it  look  right.     He 

241 


242  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

could  sec  that  when  the  bar  that  latched  a  gate  was  of  a  cer- 
tain length,  not  too  small  or  too  large,  it  pleased  both  eye  and 
hand.  He  did  not  consider  the  hinges  on  the  door  better  look- 
ing for  being  made  into  an  elaborate  pattern,  unless  the  pat- 
tern was  a  good  one.  In  short,  Dickon  had  what  is  known  as 
a  sense  of  beauty.  Some  have  it  and  some  have  not.  Those 
who  have  can  invent  beautiful  patterns,  while  those  who  have 
not  can  only  copy, — and  they  do  not  always  copy  accurately. 

It  may  seem  strange  to  speak  of  beauty  in  the  iron- work  of 
a  little  country  smithy,  but  nothing  is  more  beautiful  in  its 
way  than  good  iron-work.  There  are  gates,  hinges,  locks,  keys 
and  other  furnishings  which  are  so  well  designed  that  one  is 
never  weary  of  studying  them.  Armor  has  been  made  beauti- 
ful in  its  time ;  so  have  swords,  halberds,  daggers,  fire-baskets, 
and  fire-dogs. 

Because  iron  is  so  simple,  and  there  is  no  chance  of  getting 
an  effect  by  using  color  or  gilding,  the  task  of  making  it  beauti- 
ful is  unlike  that  of  painting  a  picture.  The  beauty  of  iron- 
work is  the  line,  the  curve,  the  proportion.  If  these  are  wrong 
one  sees  it  at  once;  and  the  same  is  true  when  the  work  is 
right.  Most  of  the  work  of  Adam  Smith,  while  strong  and 
well  wrought,  was  only  by  accident  good  to  look  at.  Dickon 
was  not  allowed  to  do  anything  that  his  father  did  not  oversee, 
and  Adam  Smith  saw  to  it  that  no  job  left  his  shop  which  was 
not  well  done.  Dickon  had  found  out,  little  by  little,  that 
when  a  thing  is  strong  enough  for  its  use,  with  no  unnecessary 
clumsiness,  and  the  handles,  catches  and  rivetings  are  where 
they  ought  to  be  for  strength  and  convenience,  it  usually  looks 
very  well.  That  is  to  say,  beautiful  iron-work  is  useful  and 
economical. 


DICKON  AT  THE  FORGE  243 

Dickon  was  hammering  away,  one  golden  autumn  morning, 
on  the  latch  for  a  gate.  The  cattle  had  broken  into  the  Fore 
Acre  again,  and  Adam,  who  had  to  go  to  Lewes  on  business, 
told  Dickon  to  make  that  latch  and  do  it  properly,  so  that  it 
would  keep  the  gate  shut.  Old  Wat  had  gone  into  the  forest 
for  some  wood,  for  the  great  belt  of  woodland  called  the 
Weald  was  all  around,  and  the  oak  from  it  served  for  fuel. 
Dickon  had  never  seen  a  coal  fire  in  his  life.  Forges  like  this 
were  scattered  all  through  the  Weald,  and  what  with  the  iron- 
workers and  the  ship-builders,  and  the  people  who  wainscoted 
their  houses  with  good  Sussex  oak,  there  is  no  Weald  left  now- 
adays. That  part  of  the  country  keeps  its  name,  and  there 
are  groves  of  oak  here  and  there,  but  that  is  all. 

Dickon  could  see  from  the  door  the  acorns  dropping  from 
the  great  oak  that  sheltered  the  smithy  and  was  so  huge  that 
a  man  could  not  circle  it  with  his  arms.  He  began  to  wonder 
if  he  could  put  some  sort  of  ornamental  work  on  that  latch. 

No  one  could  have  looked  less  like  an  artist  than  the  big, 
muscular  youth  in  his  leathern  apron,  with  his  rough  tow-head 
and  square-chinned  face;  but  inside  his  brain  was  a  thought 
working  itself  out.  He  took  an  oak  twig  and  laid  it  in  this 
position  and  that,  on  the  iron. 

It  is  not  very  easy  to  work  out  a  design  in  iron.  The  iron 
must  be  heated,  and  beaten  or  bent  into  shape  while  it  is  soft. 
There  is  no  making  a  sketch  and  taking  your  time  with  the 
brushes.  Dickon  thought  he  would  see  if  he  could  draw  a 
pattern.  He  took  a  bit  of  coal  and  a  wooden  tile  fallen  from 
the  roof,  and  began  to  combine  the  lines  of  the  gate-latch  with 
those  of  the  twig.  He  had  not  copied  iron  utensils  and  other 
patterns  without  knowing  how  to  draw  the  lines  of  an  oak 


244  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

leaf,  but  he  found  that  somehow  or  other  the  leaf,  as  an  orna- 
ment to  the  hitch,  did  not  look  right.  The  cluster  of  acorns 
was  better,  but  even  that  did  not  fit.  Dickon's  feeling,  though 
he  did  not  think  it  out,  was  that  iron  is  strong,  and  an  oak 
tree  is  one  of  the  strongest  of  trees,  and  therefore  the  oak  wa^s 
suitable  to  decorate  Sussex  iron.  He  changed  the  lines,  rub- 
bing out  one  and  then  another,  until  he  had  got  a  set  of  curves 
and  little  nubbly  knot-like  ornaments  which  were  not  exactly 
like  the  oak  twig,  but  suited  the  lines  of  the  latch.  The  leaf- 
like side-pieces  covered  the  parts  of  the  latch  where  the  fingers 
and  thumb  would  rest  in  opening  the  gate,  and  the  projecting 
handle  might  be  made  into  something  suggesting  an  acorn- 
cluster.     He  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"That's  rather  good,"  said  a  voice  over  his  shoulder. 
"Where  did  you  learn  to  draw?" 

Dickon  jumped;  he  had  been  so  busy  that  he  had  not  heard 
the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  turf.  The  stranger  who 
stood  there,  bridle  over  arm,  was  a  rather  slender  man,  five  or 
six  years  older  than  Dickon,  with  deep-set  hazel  eyes,  fair 
hair,  and  muddy  boots  that  looked  as  if  he  had  come  a  long 
journey. 

"Nobody  never  taught  me,"  said  Dickon  soberly.  "I  was 
trying  to  find  out  how  to  do  it." 

"You  found  out  then.  It  is  good — don't  touch  it.  Is  it  for 
that  gate-latch?  Go  on  and  finish  the  job;  I  won't  hinder 
you.  I'm  a  Sussex  man,  but  I  never  came  through  the  Weald 
this  way.  I  lost  my  road,  and  they  told  me  this  would  take 
me  to  Lewes.  The  nag  and  I  shall  both  be  the  better  for  an 
hour's  rest." 

Dickon  blew  up  the  fire  and  went  to  work,  with  strong, 


'it  is  better  than  the  sketch,   he  cried  heartily 


246  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

deft  strokes.  He  was  not  a  shy  lad,  particularly  when  he  was 
doing  what  he  could  do  well.  He  was  used  to  working  with 
people  watching  him.  Not  seldom  they  were  making  them- 
selves disagreeable  because  the  work  was  not  done  more 
quickly,  but  iron  cannot  be  hurried.  If  a  smith  does  not  mean 
to  spoil  the  temper  of  his  work,  he  must  keep  his  own  temper 
well  in  hand. 

The  young  man  led  his  horse  into  the  shade,  and  came  to 
watch  Dickon.  As  the  leaf-curves  began  to  stand  out  and  the 
nubs  of  the  acorn-cluster  took  shape  he  seemed  more  and  more 
interested.  Once  he  began  to  ask  a  question,  but  stopped  him- 
self, as  if  he  knew  that  when  a  man  has  his  whole  mind  on  a 
task  he  cannot  spare  any  part  of  it  for  talk.  Dickon  almost 
forgot  that  he  was  there.  He  was  intent  upon  putting  exactly 
the  right  hollows  and  veins  in  the  leaf,  and  giving  exactly  the 
right  twist  to  the  handle. 

At  last  it  was  done.  Dickon  straightened  his  back  and 
looked  at  it,  as  the  sunlight  wavered  upon  it  through  the 
branches.    The  stranger  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"It  is  better  than  the  sketch,"  he  cried  heartily.  "It  is  good 
indeed.  I  have  been  in  London,  lad,  in  the  Low  Countries  and 
in  France,  and  I  never  saw  a  sweeter  bit  of  work.  How  didst 
know  the  true  line  for  that  handle*?" 

"That's  to  make  it  open  properly,"  Dickon  explained,  "fits 
the  hand,  like." 

The  other  nodded  approvingly.  "I  see.  I  learned  that 
same  lesson  in  my  pottery.  'Wilfrid,'  my  old  master  used  to 
tell  me,  'never  thee  make  too  small  an  ear  to  thy  jugs  if  thou 
lik'st  the  maids  to  love  'ee.'  There's  a  knack,  you  see,  in  mak- 
ing a  handle  with  a  good  grip  to  it,  that  will  neither  spill  the 


DICKON  AT  THE  FORGE  247 

milk  nor  hinder  f)ouring.  My  wife  she  helped  me  there.  She 
loves  good  work  as  well  as  I  do." 

Adam  Smith,  coming  up  the  Lewes  road  next  day,  could  not 
think  what  had  happened  when  he  saw  Dickon  in  eager  talk 
with  a  stranger.  The  boy  had  never  been  given  to  words.  He 
was  more  taken  aback  when  Master  Wilfrid  told  him  that  his 
son  had  the  making  of  a  rare  workman.  He  answered  gruffly, 
stroking  his  big  beard: 

"Aye,  the  lad's  well  enow.  Latch  done,  Dickon*?  Go  and 
fit  it  to  yon  gate." 

Wilfrid  had  come  back  to  England  full  of  new  ideas,  and 
ambitious  above  all  for  the  honor  of  English  craftsmen. 
When  he  found  this  youth  working  out,  without  any  model  at 
all,  a  thing  so  good  as  the  oak-leaved  gate-latch,  he  was  surer 
than  ever  that  the  land  he  loved  could  raise  her  own  smiths. 
It  was  his  ambition  to  make  his  own  house  beautiful  within 
and  without,  as  were  some  of  the  merchants'  houses  he  had 
seen  in  cities.  He  further  astonished  the  old  smith  by  telling 
him  that  if  Dickon  would  put  some  time  on  work  along  his 
own  lines,  he  would  pay  him  double  or  treble  what  he  would 
earn  at  common  labor. 

"You  sec,"  explained  the  potter,  as  he  showed  the  design 
he  had  drafted  for  a  carved  oaken  chest,  "there's  much  to  be 
thought  of  in  iron-work.  You  have  to  make  it  strong  as  well 
as  handsome,  and  what's  more,  nine  times  out  of  ten  you  have 
to  fit  it  to  the  work  of  some  other  man.  It'd  never  do  for  the 
hinges  and  handles  on  this  coffer  to  spoil  the  looks  o'  the 
carsnng,  and  that's  to  be  done  in  London,  d'  ye  see?  Belike 
rU  have  you  make  those  first,  Dickon,  and  let  Ouentin  suit 
his  pattern  to  yours.     He  can." 


248  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

"How  does  he  make  his  design?"  queried  Dickon.  "Work 
it  out  as  he  goes  along — like  iron-work*?" 

"Not  always,"  Wilfrid  answered.  "He's  got  a  many  pat- 
terns drawn  out  on  parchment  besides  what  he  carries  in  his 
head.  But  they're  only  for  show — to  give  an  idea  of  the 
style.  When  he  gets  the  size  and  shape  and  the  wood  he's  to 
use  settled,  he  changes  the  pattern  according  to  his  own  judg- 
ment. If  a  wood-carver  doesn't  know  his  trade  the  design  can 
be  made  by  an  artist,  and  all  he  need  do  is  to  follow  it.  But 
that's  not  my  idea  of  good  work.  Unless  you've  made  such  a 
thing  yourself  you  don't  know  how  the  lines  are  going  to  look. 
I'd  never  try  to  make  a  design  for  a  fire-dog,  and  I  doubt 
you'd  make  a  poor  job  at  shaping  an  earthen  bowl.  Then,  if 
you  want  to  suit  yourself  and  your  customer,  you'll  be  chang- 
ing your  pattern  with  ever}^  job.  The  work  ought  to  grow — 
like  a  plant." 

"I  know,"  Dickon  commented.  "You  make  an  iron  pot  for 
a  woman,  and  another  for  her  neighbor,  and  ten  to  one  the 
second  must  be  a  bit  bigger  or  narrower  or  somehow  different. 
You've  got  to  go  by  your  eye." 

"They  say,"  Wilfrid  went  on  musingly,  "that  there's  like 
to  be  mechanical  ways  to  help  the  work — turn  it  out  quicker — 
do  the  planing  and  gouging  with  some  kind  of  engine  and  finish 
by  hand.  It  seemed  to  me  that  would  take  the  life  out  o'  the 
carving.  I  said  so  to  Ouentin,  and  he  laughed.  He  said  a  man 
could  use  any  tool  to  advantage  if  he  had  the  head,  but  without 
thought  you  couldn't  make  a  shovel  go  right.  I  reckon 
that's  so." 

Adam  Smith  nodded.  "Half  the  smiths  don't  know  the  way 
to  use  a  hammer,"  he  said,  "and  well-nigh  all  the  rest  don't 


DICKON  AT  THE  FORGE  249 

know  what  they're  making.  You  stick  to  the  old  forge  a  while 
yet,  lad.  There's  a  bit  to  learn  afore  you'll  be  master  o'  the 
trade." 

"Your  father's  right,"  Master  Wilfrid  admitted.  "You'll 
not  waste  your  time  by  learning  all  that  he  can  teach  you.  As 
I  was  saying  to  you  yesterday,  you've  been  doing  good  plain 
work  and  learned  judgment.  You  know  how  to  bend  a  rod 
so  that  it'll  be  strong,  and  that  will  make  it  look  strong.  And 
I'll  warrant  when  you  come  to  make  a  grille  for  a  pair  of  iron 
gates  you'll  know  where  to  put  your  cross-bars." 

For  all  that,  Master  Wilfrid  did  not  mean  to  lose  sight  of 
Dickon.  He  knew  how  much  a  youth  could  learn  by  talking 
with  men  of  other  crafts,  and  he  intended  that  Dickon  should 
have  his  chance.  He  himself  had  lost  no  opportunity,  while 
on  his  travels,  of  becoming  acquainted  with  men  who  were 
doing  good  work  in  England,  and  now  and  then  one  of  these 
men  would  turn  off  the  main  road  to  see  him  at  his  pottery  or 
his  home.  When  the  time  came  to  forge  a  pair  of  iron  gates 
to  the  parish  church,  he  saw  to  it  that  Dickon  got  the  refusal 
of  the  work.  With  his  favorite  tools  and  his  father's  gruff 
"God  speed  ye,  lad  I"  Dickon  rode  forth  to  his  first  work  for 
himself,  and  it  was  done  to  the  satisfaction  of  every  one. 

"I  knew  that  Sussex  brains  could  handle  that  job,"  Wilfrid 
exulted,  as  they  looked  at  the  finished  task.  In  days  when 
churches  and  cathedrals  were  open  all  day  long,  it  was  desir- 
able to  have  some  sort  of  open-work  railing  to  keep  stray  beasts 
out  of  the  chancel.  In  a  more  splendid  building  this  railing 
might  have  been  of  silver,  but  the  homely  farmer-folk  thought 
the  iron  of  the  Weald  was  good  enough  for  them. 

Up  along  the  grassy  track  past  the  south  door  of  the  church 


250  IN    THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

rode  a  company  of  travelers,  middle-class  folk  by  their  dress. 
As  the}'  came  abreast  of  the  gate  the  foremost  called  out,  "Ho, 
Wilfrid,  is  there  any  tavern  hereabouts"?  We  be  lost  sheep 
in  the  wilderness.  The  Abbey  guest-house  is  already  full  and 
they  will  not  take  us  in." 

"Faith,  it's  good  to  see  thee  here,  Robert  Edrupt,"  the  pot- 
ter answered.  "I  could  house  three  or  four  of  you,  but  it's 
harvest  time,  that's  a  fact.  No,  there's  no  tavern  in  the  village. 
You  see,  most  of  the  folk  that  travel  this  way  go  to  the  Abbey 
for  a  lodging." 

"We'll  stick  together,  I  reckon,"  answered  Edrupt,  "if  you 
can  give  us  some  kind  o'  shelter,  and  the  makings  of  a  meal. 
A  barn  would  serve." 

"I'll  do  better  than  that,"  Wilfrid  assured  them.  "I'll  take 
ye  to  Cold  Harbor.  It's  part  of  a  Roman  house  that  we  un- 
covered near  the  pottery.  The  walls  were  used  in  the  old 
farmer's  time  for  a  granary.  It's  weather-proof,  and  there's 
a  stone  hearth,  and  Dickon  here  will  help  swing  a  crane  for 
the  kettles.    We've  plenty  stores  if  there's  a  cook  among  ye." 

"We  can  make  shift,"  laughed  Edrupt.  "I'll  come  to  the 
house  to-morrow  and  gossip  a  bit.  Quentin  here  has  your 
carved  coffer  for  ye." 

"And  here's  the  lad  that  made  the  hinges  and  the  handles," 
Wilfrid  added,  with  a  hand  on  the  big  youth's  shoulder. 
"Sithee  here,  Dickon,  you  show  them  their  way  to  their  lodg- 
ing, and  I'll  e'en  ride  home  and  tell  Edwitha  to  spare  some 
pots  and  kettles  for  the  cooking." 

Thus  Dickon  was  shoved  all  in  a  moment,  in  the  edge  of  an 
autumn  evening,  into  the  company  of  merchants  and  crafts- 
men such  as  he  had  never  met.    The  North-countryman,  Alan 


DICKON  AT  THE  FORGE  251 

of  York,  was  a  glazier;  David  Saumond,  a  Scotch  stone- 
mason coming  u[i  from  Canterbury  to  do  some  work  for  an 
Abbey;  Guy  of  Limoges  was  a  goldsmitli;  Crispin  Eyre,  a 
shoemaker  of  London;  there  were  two  or  three  merchants, 
some  weavers  newly  arrived  from  overseas,  various  servants 
and  horse-boys,  and  two  peddlers  of  dark  foreign  aspect.  The 
talk  was  mostly  in  a  mixture  of  French  and  English,  but 
Dickon  understood  this  better  than  he  could  speak  it,  and 
several  of  the  men  were  as  English  as  himself.  In  the  merry 
company  at  supper  he  saw  what  Wilfrid  had  meant  when  he 
said  that  hand-skill  without  head-wisdom  was  walking  blind- 
fold, and  work  done  alone  was  limping  labor.  It  was  the 
England  of  the  guilds  breaking  bread  by  that  fire. 


THE  WANDER-YEARS 

Fair  is  the  light  on  the  castle  wall — 

(Heigh-ho,   for   the   road!) 
Merry  the  wassail  in  hearth-warm  hall — 

(Blither  the  call  of  the  road!) 
When   the  moonlight  silvers   the  sleeping  plain, 
And  the  wind  is  calling  to  heart  and  brain, 
And  the  blood  beats  quick  and  the  soul  is  fain— • 

Ah,  follow  the  open  road ! 

Low  croons  the  mother  while  children  sleep — 

(Heigh-ho,  for  the  road!) 
And  firelight  shadows  are  warm  and  deep — 

(Dearer  the  call  of  the  road!) 
Where  the  red  fox  runs  and  the  merlin  sings, 
And  the  hedge  is  alive  with  the  whir  of  wings. 
And  the  wise  earth  whispers  of  nameless  things— 

Ah,  follow  the  open  road ! 

Safe  is  the  nook  we  have  made  our  own — 

(Heigh-ho,   for   the   road!) 
Dear  the  comrades  our  hearts  have  known— 

(Hark  to  the  call  of  the  road!) 
Trumpets  are  calling  and  torches  flare, 
And  a  man  must  do,  and  a  man  must  dare, — • 
Whether  to  victory  or  despair, — 

Come,  follow  the  open  road! 


XX 

THE    WINGS    OF   THE    DRAGON 


HOW    P^DRAIG   MADE   IRISH    WIT  A   JOURNEYMAN   TO 
FLORENTINE  GENIUS 

ADRAIG  was  having  his  first  view  of  a  for- 
eign  country.      England,    to   be   sure,    was 
somewhat  strange  to  a  boy  who  had  never 
before  been  outside  Ireland.     Brother  Basil, 
who  had  taught  him  all   that  he  knew  of 
writing,  reading,  painting  and  other  arts,  had  come 
to  England  on  business  for  the  Irish  Abbeys  and 
was  going  no  further.     Padraig  felt  that  he  wanted 
to  see  more  of  the  world. 

Perhaps  the  wise  monk  felt  that  unless  his  pupil  had  the 
chance  now  to  wander  and  come  back,  he  would  run  away  and 
never  return  at  all;  at  any  rate  he  told  the  youth  that  this 
would  be  a  good  time  to  make  the  pilgrimage  to  Rome  if  he 
could.  There  was  peace  in  Lombardy  for  the  moment,  and  the 
Pope,  driven  out  more  than  once  by  the  warring  Emperor  of 
Germany,  was  now  in  the  Vatican,  again. 

A  fishing-boat,  slipping  over  to  Calais  in  the  light  of  a  windy 
dawn,  carried  one  passenger,  a  red-headed  boy  in  a  hooded 
cloak  of  rough  black  frieze.     Padraig's  own  feet  bore  him 

255 


256  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

from  town  to  town  until  now,  in  a  French  city,  he  stood  in 
the  doorway  of  a  gray  and  stately  church  alive  with  pictures. 
On  a  scaffold  slung  up  behind  the  altar  a  painter  sat  working 
on  a  new  altar-piece. 

This  was  something  which  Padraig  had  never  seen.  He  had 
painted  pictures  himself  on  parchment,  and  drawn  designs  in 
color  for  the  craftsmen,  but  a  wall-painting  so  full  of  life  and 
color  that  it  looked  like  a  live  angel  come  down  from  the 
skies,  he  had  never  seen  made  by  any  man. 

It  was  in  three  parts,  filling  three  arches,  the  middle  one 
larger  than  the  others.  In  the  center  was  the  beautiful  brood- 
ing Mother  with  the  Child  in  her  arms,  and  her  dull  red  mantle 
seemed  to  lift  and  float  like  a  sunset  cloud.  In  the  narrower 
spaces  were  figures  of  saints.  One,  already  finished,  was  an 
old  man  in  the  dress  of  a  hermit,  with  a  hind;  the  graceful 
creature  nestled  its  head  against  him.  An  arrow  transfixed  his 
knee,  and  Padraig  knew  that  this  was  Saint  Giles,  patron  saint 
of  cripples.  The  last  of  the  three,  on  which  the  artist  was 
now  working,  was  Saint  Margaret  and  the  dragon.  The 
dragon  was  writhing  away,  with  a  dreadful  look  of  rage  and 
fear,  before  the  cross  in  the  hands  of  the  brave,  beautiful 
young  girl.  The  sun  crept  through  a  loophole  window  and 
made  the  pictures,  at  the  end  of  the  long  vista  of  gray  arches, 
as  real  as  living  beings. 

Even  at  this  distance,  nevertheless,  the  trained  eye  of  Pad- 
raig detected  something  the  matter  with  that  dragon.  The 
artist  painted,  scraped  out,  scowled,  pondered  and  finally  flung 
down  his  brushes  in  impatient  disgust.  He  moved  away,  his 
eyes  still  on  the  imfinished  work,  and  backed  directly  into 
Padraig. 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  DRAGON  257 

"What — oh,  I  ditl  not  know  that  there  was  any  one  here. 
Look  at  that  dragon,  did  you  ever  sec  such  a  creature  I" 

"Softly,  softly,  Mattco,"  spoke  a  superior-looking  man  in 
the  dress  of  a  sub-prior,  behind  them.  "What  is  wrong  with 
the  picture?  It  looks  very  well,  to  me.  We  must  have  it  fin- 
ished,  you  understand,  before  the  feast  of  Saint  Giles,  in  any 
case.  You  must  remember,  dear  son,  that  these  works  are 
not  for  the  purpose  of  delighting  the  eye.  The  figure  of 
Our  Lady  would  be  more  impressive  if  you  were  to  add  a 
gold  border  to  the  mantle,  would  it  not?" 

Padraig  retreated.  He  was  still  grinning  over  the  expres- 
sion on  the  artist's  face,  when  he  took  out  a  bit  of  crayon 
and  at  a  safe  distance  made  a  sketch  of  the  pompous  church- 
man on  a  convenient  stone.  Having  caught  the  likeness  he 
took  from  his  scrip  a  half-completed  "Book  of  Legends," 
and  in  the  wide-open  mouth  of  a  squirming  dragon  which 
formed  the  initial  he  drew  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  half- 
swallowed  Sub-Prior. 

Just  as  he  sat  back  to  survey  the  design,  Matteo  strode  down 
the  path  and  stopped  with  his  hand  on  the  gate. 

"Did  you  see  him?"  the  artist  spluttered.  "Did  you  hear 
him?  Because  he  is  the  secretary  of  the  Archbishop  and 
keeps  the  pay-roll  he  thinks  he  can  instruct  me  in  my  work  I 
If  I  had  to  paint  the  things  he  describes  I  would  whitewash 
every  one  of  my  pictures  and  spend  the  rest  of  my  days  m  a 
scullery!  There,  at  least,  no  fault  would  be  found  because 
the  work  was  too  well  done! 

"That  monster  will  be  the  death  of  me  yet.  I  know  that 
Le  Gargouille  never  looked  like  that.  He  was  a  great  dragon, 
you  know,  who  lived  in  the  Seine  and  ravaged  the  country 


258  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

until  he  was  destroyed  by  Saint  Honiainc.  Tlicy  do  not  infest 
our  rivers  any  more — thc\  luive  taken  to  the  church.  My 
faith,  if  I  knew  where  to  imd  one  I  would  lead  that  stupid 
monk  down  there  by  the  ear  and  show  him  what  a  dragon  is 
like.  I  never  saw  a  dragon — it  is  not  my  business  to  paint 
dragons — but  I  know  that  they  ought  to  be  slippery  shining 
green  like  a  frog,  or  a  lizard — and  I  cannot  get  the  color." 

"Is  this  anything  like*?"  asked  Padraig,  and  he  held  up 
the  book. 

Padraig's  mind  worked  by  leaps.  Brother  Basil  used  to  say, 
and  it  had  made  a  jump  while  the  artist  was  talking.  The 
most  that  he  had  thought  of,  when  he  made  the  sketch  in  his 
book,  was  that  the  face  of  the  Sub-Prior  would  be  a  good  one 
to  use  some  day  for  a  certain  kind  of  character;  and  then  it 
had  occurred  to  him  to  fancy  the  dragon  showing  his  apprecia- 
tion of  the  dignitary  in  a  natural  way.  He  had  already 
done  the  dragon  with  the  last  of  the  green  that  he  and  Brother 
Basil  brought  from  Ireland,  before  he  came  to  France,  and  it 
was  a  clear  transparent  brilliant  color  that  looked  like  a  new- 
born water-plant  leaf  in  the  sun.  He  had  watched  lizards  and 
frogs,  in  long  dreamy  afternoons  by  the  fishing-pools,  too 
many  times  not  to  remember. 

The  painter's  mobile  dark  face  changed  to  half  a  dozen 
expressions  in  a  minute.  He  chuckled  over  the  caricature; 
then  he  looked  at  the  work  more  closely;  then  he  fluttered 
over  the  other  leaves  of  the  book. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  color  for  this?"  he  queried. 

"I  made  it,"  said  Padraig. 

"Can  you  make  it  again?" 

Padraig  hesitated.     "Is  there  a  forest  near  by?" 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  DRAGON  259 

"Forest — no;  but  why?    For  the  hunting  of  dragons'?" 

"N-no,  b-but — "  Padraig  was  apt  to  stammer  when  ex- 
cited— "if  I  had  balsam  like  ours  I  could  make  the  green. 
We  had  none,  and  so  we  hunted  until  we  found  the  right 
resin — Brother  Basil  and  I." 

"Basil  Ossorin,  an  Irish  monk  from  England'?"  asked  Mat- 
teo  quickly.  "I  met  him  ten  years  since  when  he  was  on  his 
way  to  Byzantium.  If  he  was  your  master  you  have  had  good 
teaching." 

Padraig  nodded.  Brother  Basil  was  the  man  whom  he 
best  loved. 

"There  is  no  trouble  about  the  balsam  if  you  know  it  when 
you  see  it,"  the  artist  went  on.  "I  will  take  you  to  a  place 
where  anything  may  be  bought — cobalt,  lapis  lazuli,  cinnabar, 
orpiment,  sandarac — and  it  is  honestly  sold." 

Padraig  numbered  the  matters  off  on  his  fingers.  "Copper, 
— and  \^enice  turpentine, — and  saffron,  to  make  him  yellow 
underneath  like  water-snakes  in  an  old  pond.  His  wings 
must  be  smooth — and  green — bright,  and  mottled  with  rusty 
brown — the  sun  comes  from  behind,  and  he  must  look  as  if  it 
were  shining  through  the  halo  round  the  maiden's  head." 

"I  wonder  now  about  that  balsam,"  mused  the  painter. 

Padraig  drew  an  outline  in  the  dust  on  the  stone  flags. 
"The  tree  is  like  this-^the  leaf  and  berry  like  this." 

Matteo  laughed  with  pure  satisfaction.  "That  is  all  right; 
the  tree  grows  in  the  abbey  gardens.  Come,  young  imp  with 
the  crest  of  fire,  come  quickly,  and  we  will  have  a  glorious 
day." 

It  is  not  certain  who  painted  more  of  that  dragon,  the 
master  or  the  journeyman.     Padraig  directed  the  making  of 


26o  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

the  vivid  gold-green  as  if  he  were  the  artist  and  the  other  tlie 
grinder  of  paints.  Matteo  dragged  old  Brother  Josepli,  the 
caretaker,  from  his  work  in  the  crypt  to  scrape  the  original 
dragon  off  the  wall  until  only  the  outline  of  curling  body  and 
webbed  wings  remained.  The  design  was  all  right,  for  that 
was  Matteo's  especial  skill.  He  could  make  a  wall-painting 
as  decorative  and  well-proportioned  as  the  stiff  symbolic  fig- 
ures, and  yet  make  the  picture  natural. 

There  was  a  fearful  moment  when  the  paint  was  ready 
and  they  made  the  trial,  for  neither  was  sure  that  the  pigment 
would  look  right  on  this  new  surface.  But  it  gleamed  a  living 
green.  Padraig  brightened  the  scaled  body  with  yellow  where 
the  light  struck  it.  Matteo  used  his  knowledge  of  armor  to 
deepen  the  shadows  with  a  cunning  blend  of  blue  and  bronze 
that  made  the  scales  look  metallic.  Each  worked  on  a  wing, 
spreading  it  with  sure  swift  strokes  across  the  base  of  the 
scene.  Just  as  Padraig  drew  his  brush  for  the  last  time  along 
the  bony  framework  of  the  clutching  talons,  the  painter  caught 
him  by  the  arm  and  drew  him  back  down  the  nave. 

"Now  look  I"  he  said. 

The  dragon  wallowed  at  the  feet  of  Saint  Margaret  in 
furious,  bewildered  rage.  Old  Brother  Joseph,  coming  out  of 
the  corner  where  he  had  been  sitting  half  asleep,  looked  actu- 
ally frightened  at  the  creature.  Matteo,  well  pleased,  did 
not  wait  for  the  verdict  of  the  monks,  but  took  Padraig  home 
to  his  lodgings  in  a  narrow  street  of  the  town,  and  they  sat 
up  late  that  night  in  talk  over  many  things. 

The  painter  was  a  Florentine,  and  when  at  home  he  lived 
in  a  street  even  then  called  the  Street  of  the  Painters,  in  Flor- 
ence.   He  had  been  in  London  years  before,  in  Paris,  in  Rome, 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  DRAGON  261 

ill  Spain,  in  Sicil)-.  Now  he  had  commissions  for  the  decorat- 
ing of  a  palace  in  Rouen,  and  he  took  Padraig's  breath  away 
by  suggesting  that  they  work  together. 

"Some  day,"  Matteo  averred  thoughtfully,  "there  will  be 
cathedrals  in  Italy,  France,  Normandy,  Aquitaine,  England, 
greater  than  the  world  has  seen.  There  will  be  cliffs  and  for- 
ests of  stone-work — arches,  towers,  pinnacles,  groined  and 
vaulted  roofs,  hundreds  of  statues  of  the  saints.  Every  inch 
of  it  will  be  made  beautiful  as  the  forest  is — with  vines  and 
creeping  mosses,  blossoms  and  the  little  wood-folk  that  shel- 
ter among  trees.  There  will  be  great  windows  of  stained  and 
painted  glass.  There  will  be  altar-pieces  like  those  that  we 
only  dream  to-day.  I  tell  you,  Patricio  mio,  we  are  in  the 
dawn  of  the  millennium  of  the  builders.  What  has  been  done 
already  is  nothing — nothing  I" 

Padraig  found  in  the  following  months  that  a  group  of 
young  Italians,  Matteo  and  some  of  his  friends,  were  work- 
ing along  a  new  line,  with  models  and  methods  that  accounted 
for  the  beauty  of  their  achievements.  The  figures  that  they 
painted  met  with  scant  appreciation  oftentimes,  for  many  of 
the  churchmen  desired  only  symbolic  figures  of  bright  colors, 
with  gilding  to  make  them  rich.  Moreover,  there  was  a  very 
general  disbelief  in  the  permanence  of  wall-painting.  Walls 
were  damp,  and  the  only  really  satisfactory  decoration  thus 
far  had  been  the  costly  and  tedious  mosaic.  Made  of  thou- 
sands of  tiny  blocks  of  stone  of  various  colors,  the  design  of 
the  mosaic  had  to  be  suited  to  the  infinite  network  of  little 
cracks  and  the  knowledge  of  the  worker.  Kings  and  noble- 
men usually  preferred  tapestry  which  could  be  saved  in  case 
of  disaster,  and  carried  about,  to  costly  wall-paintings  which 


262  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

must  remain  where  they  were.  Yet  Padraig  found  JSIattco's 
rich  and  graceful  figures  equal  in  their  way  to  the  stone  sculp- 
tures of  any  French  master,  and  said  so. 

"It  is  like  this,  comrade,"  the  Florentine  explained,  slipping 
his  arm  across  Padraig's  shoulders  as  they  strolled  past  the 
church  of  Saint  Ouen,  "A  picture  is  a  soul;  its  life  on  earth 
depends  upon  the  body  that  it  inhabits;  and  we  have  not 
yet  found  out  how  to  make  its  body  immortal.  I  do  not 
believe  that  my  paintings  will  live  more  than  a  few  years. 
You  see,  a  mural  painting  is  not  like  your  illuminations.  You 
can  keep  a  book  safe  in  a  chest.  But  a  painting  on  plaster — 
or  on  a  wooden  panel — is  besieged  day  and  night  by  dampness, 
and  dryness,  and  dust,  and  smoke,  changes  of  heat  and  cold, — 
everything.  The  wall  may  crack.  The  roof  may  take  fire, — 
especially  when  pigeons  and  sparrows  nest  in  the  beams.  The 
mere  action  of  the  air  on  any  painting  must  be  proved  by 
years.  I  got  my  lesson  on  that  when  I  was  not  as  old  as  you. 
I  heard  from  an  ancient  monk  of  a  marvelous  Madonna, 
painted  from  a  living  model — a  beautiful  girl  pointed  out  for 
years  as  the  Madonna  of  San  Raffaele.  I  tramped  over  the 
Apennines  to  see  it.  Patricio  mio,  the  face  was  black!  The 
artist  had  used  oil  with  resin  and  wax,  and  the  picture  had 
turned  as  black  as  a  Florentine  lily  I  I  never  told  the  old 
man  about  it,  and  I  praised  the  work  to  his  heart's  content; 
but  to  myself  I  said  that  I  would  dream  no  more  of  my  own 
immortal  fame.    I  dream  only  of  the  work  of  others." 

"But  suppose  that  a  way  could  be  found  to  make  the  colors 
lasting?"  queried  Padraig. 

"Ah,  that  would  be  a  real  Paradise  of  Painters — until  some 
one  came  along  with  a  torch.     I  think,  myself,  that  some 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  DRAGON  263 

day  a  drying  medium  will  be  found  which  will  make  it  pos- 
sible to  paint  in  oils  for  all  time  to  come.  There  is  painting 
on  wood,  and  on  drj-  plaster — and  fresco,  where  you  paint 
on  the  plaster  while  it  is  still  damp.  In  fresco  you  must  lay 
out  only  the  work  that  can  be  finished  that  day.  Me,  I  am 
content  for  the  time  to  be  a  fresco  painter." 

"And  if  it  is  all  to  vanish  in  a  few  years,  why  do  we  paint*?" 
mused  Padraig  with  a  swift  melancholy  in  his  voice. 

Matteo's  hand  fell  heavily  upon  his  arm.  "Because  we 
must  not  lose  our  souls — that  is  why.  The  life  of  our  work 
will  last  long  enough  to  be  seen  and  known  by  others.  They 
will  remember  it,  and  do  their  work  better.  Thus  it  will  go 
on,  generation  after  generation,  until  painters  come  who  can 
use  all  that  we  have  learned  since  Rome  fell,  and  cap  it  with 
new  visions.  Every  generation  has  its  dragon  to  dispose  of. 
When  I  have  tamed  my  dragon  he  will  take  me  to  the  skies — 
maybe." 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  Matteo,  overhauling  the  flat 
leather-bound  coffer  in  which  he  kept  his  belongings,  dragged 
up  from  the  bottom  of  the  collection  some  parchments  cov- 
ered with  miscellaneous  sketches,  mostly  of  heads  and  figures. 
He  had  received  a  message  from  a  sharp-faced  Italian  peddler- 
boy  that  day,  and  had  been  looking  rather  grave.  On  the 
plaster  of  the  wall,  in  the  sunset  light,  he  began  to  draw, 
roughing  it  out  with  quick  sure  strokes,  a  procession  of  men 
and  horses  with  some  massive  wheeled  vehicle  in  the  center. 
Presently  this  was  seen  to  be  a  staging  like  a  van,  drawn  by 
six  white  oxen  harnessed  in  scarlet.  Upon  it  stood  churchmen 
in  robes  of  ceremony,  grouped  about  a  tall  standard  rising 
high   above  their  heads — a  globe  surmounted  by  a  crucifix. 


264  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  1  HE  GUILD 

Padraig  knew  wliat  this  was.  It  was  the  Carocchio  or  sacred 
car  bearing  the  standard  of  Milan — but  Matteo  was  a  Flor- 
entine. 

"Patricio  caro,"  said  the  artist  turning  to  his  j^oung  pupil, 
"to-morrow  we  shall  have  to  part.  I  have  told  the  Prince 
that  you  are  quite  capable  of  finishing  his  banquet-hall,  and 
that  I  have  other  business.  So  I  have,  but  not  what  he  may 
think.  I  had  word  to-day  that  Barbarossa  has  crossed  the 
Alps.     This  time  it  will  be  a  fight  to  the  end. 

"You  know,  for  we  have  talked  often  of  it,  that  the  League 
of  the  Lombard  cities  is  the  great  hope  of  the  Communes  in 
Italy.  Moreover,  it  is  your  fight  as  well  as  ours.  If  the 
Empire  conquers  it  will  stamp  those  Communes  flat,  and  take 
good  care  that  the  cities  make  no  headway  toward  further 
resistance.  The  next  step — for  Frederick  has  said  that  he  is 
another  Charlemagne — will  be  the  conquest  of  France,  and 
then  he  will  try  to  hurl  the  whole  force  of  his  Empire  against 
Henry  Plantagenet,  his  only  great  rival.  Myself,  I  doubt  if 
he  can  do  that.  When  men  do  not  want  to  fight  they  seldom 
win  battles. 

"Now  there  are  three  hundred  young  men  of  the  leading 
houses  of  Lombardy  who  have  sworn  to  guard  the  Carocchio 
with  their  lives.  The  Archbishop  and  his  priests  will  stand 
upon  the  car  in  the  battle  and  administer  the  sacrament  to 
the  dying.  It  the  Emperor  takes  it  this  time  it  will  be  after 
the  death  of  every  man  of  the  'juramento.'  I  am  a  Florentine, 
that  is  true,  but  I  shall  be  a  foot-soldier  in  that  fight.  If  we 
live,  we  will  have  our  cities  free.  If  we  die — it  is  for  our 
own  cities  as  well  as  theirs, 

"This  is  what  I  want  you  to  do,  little  brother.     Ah,  yes. 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  DRAGON  265 

to  die  is  not  always  the  most  difficult  thing!  These  are  the 
names  and  many  of  the  faces  of  the  'juramento.'  Keep  them, 
and  to-morrow,  when  I  am  gone,  copy  this  sketch  of  the 
Carocchio  going  into  the  battle.  Then,  if  I  never  come  back, 
there  will  still  be  some  one  to  paint  the  picture.  When  you 
find  a  prince,  or  some  wealthy  merchant,  who  will  let  you 
paint  the  Carocchio  on  his  wall,  do  it  and  keep  alive  the  glory 
of  Milan.  You  will  find  some  Milanese  who  will  welcome 
you,  however  the  game  goes.  And  the  picture  will  be  so  good 
— your  picture  and  mine — that  men  will  see  and  remember  it 
whether  they  know  the  story  or  not.  If  they  copy  it,  although 
the  faces  may  not  be  like,  they  will  yet  carry  the  meaning — 
the  standard  of  the  free  city  above  the  conflict.  Your  prom- 
ise, Patricio  mio — and  then — addiol" 

Padraig  promised.  The  next  day,  when  he  came  back 
to  the  little  room  at  the  end  of  the  narrow  stair,  there  was 
only  the  picture  on  the  white  sunlit  wall. 


ST.  ELOrS  BLESSING 

Clovls  the  King,  proud  of  his  golden  thrones, 

Granted  our  Saint  broad  lands,  whereon  he  should 

Build  cloisters,  work  in  gold  and  precious  stones 
And   carve  in   silver   as  it   might  be   wood, 

And  for  God's  glory — and  the  King's  fair  name — 

Do  miracles  with  metal  and  with  flame. 

So  to  the  world's  end,  where  long-hoarded  pelf 

Shone   forth   new-hallowed   in   the   goldsmith's   hand, 

Saint  Eloi's  craftsmen,  as  long  since  himself. 
Were  honored  where  they  went  in  every  land. 

Yet  still  his  heart  was  ever  ours,  and  stayed 

Here  in  Limoges,  the  city  that  he  made. 

Then  all  one  night  he  knelt  for  us  in  prayer 
At  the  high  altar,  suing  for  this  grace, — 

That  his  fine  art,  in  his  true  people's  care, 
Should  ripen  rich  as  in  none  other  place, 

And  if  gold  fail,  beauty  to  our  desire 

Should  we  create,  out  of  the  earth  and  fire. 

All  secret  work  of  dainty  orfreny 

Couchet  in  jeweled  paternes  brightly  quaint, 

Balass  and  emeraut,  sapphire,  all  should  be 
Set  in  the  triptych  of  the  pictured  saint. 

Or  with   new  dreams  of  unwrought   beauty  liaunted, 

Blend  in  aniail  deep  hues  of  light  enchanted. 


Then   vanished   all    the   vision — Saint   Eloi 

With  trembling  saw  it  swallowed  up  in  night. 

None  may  escape  the  laws  of  grief  or  joy, 

And  when  the  day  is  done,  then  fails  the  light. 

Yet  still  he  prayed — the  dragon-darkness  fled, 

And  a  new  life  dawned,  risen  from  the  dead. 

Soft  smoothness  like  a  creamy  petaled  rose, 
Rich  roundness  like  the  sun-filled  apricot. 

Gold  garlands  twisted  by  some  wind  that  blows 
From  what  strange  land  we  craftsmen  marvel  not. 

And  in  this  porcelain  cup  (he  said)  shall  pour 

Joy  of  life,  joy  of  craft,  forevermore. 


XXI 

GOLD  OF  BYZANTIUM 

HOW    GUY   OF    LIMOGES   TAUGHT   THE   ART   OF    BYZANTIUM    TO 
WILFRID    OF    SUSSEX 

GUY  BOUVEREL  was  again  in  his  own  country, 
where  he  was  called,  according  to  the  habit  of  the 
day,  Guy  of  Limoges.  He  had  spent  nearly  ten  years 
working  with  Eloy,  the  master  artist,  in  Limoges, 
and  studying  the  art  of  enameling  on  copper,  silver  and  gold. 
The  new  name  was  to  him  what  a  degree  from  some  famous 
university  is  to  the  modern  scientist.  When  a  man  was  called 
Guy  of  Limoges,  William  of  Sens,  or  Cornelys  of  Arras,  it 
usually  meant  that  he  was  a  good  example  of  whatever  made 
the  place  mentioned  famous.  Guy  Bouverel  might  be  any- 
body. The  name  was  known  among  the  goldsmiths  of  Guth- 
rum's  Lane  in  London;  that  was  all.  But  Guy  of  Limoges 
meant  a  reputation  for  enamel-work. 

The  matter  on  which  he  was  meditating,  however,  as  he 
left  Cold  Harbor  and  walked  up  toward  the  house  of  Wil- 
frid the  potter,  was  clean  outside  his  own  craft.  The  King, 
being  much  pleased  with  certain  work  done  at  the  Abbey  for 
which  Guy  was  bound,  had  questioned  him  about  it,  and 
ended  by  giving  him  a  rather  large  order.  Brother  Basil,  a 
wise  monk  from  an  Irish  monastery,  had  come  to  England  to 

269 


270  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

gather  artists  and  artisans,  and  was  for  the  time  at  this  Abbey 
in  the  north,  directing  and  aiding  some  work  for  the  Church. 
Several  of  the  company  that  hiy  the  night  before  at  Cold 
Harbor  were  going  there,  and  among  them  they  would  be  able 
to  do  what  the  King  required. 

The  dowry  of  Princess  Joan  was  to  include  a  table  of  gold 
twelve  feet  long,  twenty-four  gold  cups  and  as  many  plates, 
and  some  other  trifles.  A  part  of  this  work  would  be  done  in 
Limoges;  but  the  King  seemed  to  think  that  the  rest  might 
be  done  in  England  quite  as  well.  He  had  also  ordered  stained 
glass  for  a  chapel,  and  some  reliquaries,  or  cases  for  precious 
relics,  and  three  illuminated  missals.  The  Sicilian  court  was 
one  of  the  most  splendid  in  Europe.  The  King  evidently 
meant  his  daughter's  setting  out  to  be  nowise  shabby. 

A  chest  of  gold  was  to  be  delivered  by  the  Chancellor  to 
Guy,  and  he  was  to  accompany  it,  with  its  guard,  to  its  desti- 
nation. One  of  the  King's  accountants  would  be  nominally 
in  charge,  but  of  course  if  anything  should  happen  to  the 
chest,  Guy  would  be  in  difficulties.  There  were  ingots,  or 
lumps,  of  gold,  cast  in  molds  for  convenience  in  packing,  and 
to  be  used  in  the  goldsmith-work;  but  the  greater  part  of  the 
gold  was  coined  bezants — coins  worth  about  half  a  sovereign 
in  modern  money,  and  minted  in  Byzantium.  This  would 
pay  for  materials  brought  from  almost  every  corner  of  the 
known  world,  and  for  the  work  of  the  skilled  metal-worker, 
enamel-worker,  glassmaker,  and  lumineur  who  would  fill  the 
order.  Tomaso  the  physician  had  established  himself  in  a 
half-ruined  tower  not  far  from  the  workshop  on  the  Abbey 
lands,  and  would  aid  them  in  working  out  certain  problems; 


GOLD  OF  BYZANTIUM  271 

and  altogether,  it  was  such  a  prospect  as  any  man  of  Guy's 
age  and  ambition  might  find  agreeable. 

"Hola,  lad  I"  called  Ranulph  the  troubadour  cheerily. 
"Have  you  the  world  on  your  shoulders,  or  only  some  new 
undertaking?" 

Guy  laughed,  with  a  certain  sense  of  relief.  He  had  known 
Ranulph  for  some  time,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  here  he 
might  safely  find  a  listener. 

"Do  you  know  a  certain  clerk  named  Simon  Gastard?"  he 
asked. 

"I  have  not  that  pleasure,"  laughed  the  troubadour.  "Ought 
I  to  know  him?" 

"Not  if  you  can  help  it,"  said  Guy,  "if  he  is  the  same 
Gastard  whom  I  heard  of  in  France  five  years  ago.  Didst 
ever  hear  of  sweating  gold?" 

"It  sounds  like  the  tale  of  King  Midas,"  Ranulph  chuckled. 
"How,  exactly,  does  it  happen?" 

"It  does  not  happen,"  Guy  answered,  "except  an  itching 
palm  be  in  the  treasury.  There  was  a  clerk  in  Paris  who 
took  a  cask  full  of  gold  pieces  and  sand,  which  being  rolled 
about,  gold  more  or  less  was  ground  off  by  the  sand  without 
great  change  in  the  look  of  the  coin.  Then,  the  coins  being 
taken  out  in  a  sieve  and  the  sand  mixed  with  water,  the  gold 
dust  sank  to  the  bottom  and  was  melted  and  sold,  while  the 
coins  were  paid  on  the  nail.  I  had  as  lief  get  money  by 
paring  a  cheese,  but  that's  as  you  look  at  it.  If  I  have  to 
travel  with  this  fellow  I  should  like  to  know  that  there  is 
nothing  unusual  about  the  chest  our  gold  is  in.  I  cannot 
keep  awake  all  the  time,  and  there  is  enough  in  that  chest 
to  make  a  dozen  men  rich.     I  knew  a  rascal  once  who  miide 


272  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  a  chest,  stole  most  of  the  coin,  and 
then  nailed  the  chest  to  the  floor  to  hide  its  emptiness." 

Kanulph  laughed  sympathetically.  "You  do  see  the  wrong 
side  of  mankind  when  you  have  anything  to  do  with  treasure." 

"Unless  you  know  something  of  it,"  returned  Guy  grimly, 
"you  won't  be  allowed  to  handle  treasure  more  than  once." 

"True,"  admitted  Ranulph.  "Why  not  take  turns  watching 
the  chest?" 

"The  others  who  are  bound  for  the  Abbey  have  gone  on. 
I  had  to  wait  for  the  Chancellor,  and  then  I  saw  Gastard." 

"Ask  the  potter,"  said  Ranulph  at  last.  "He  can  be  trusted, 
and  he  may  know  of  some  one  who  has  a  chest  that  will  defy 
your  clerk.  I  suppose  you  don't  expect  him  to  steal  it,  chest 
and  all?" 

"No;  I  have  had  dealings  with  the  captain  of  the  guard 
before.  He  is  Sir  Stephen  Giffard,  a  West-country  knight, 
and  he  will  send  men  who  can  be  trusted.  The  trouble  is, 
you  see,  that  I  am  not  sure  about  Gastard.  But  he  could  not 
object  to  the  secure  packing  of  the  gold." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  Wilfrid's  house,  and  he  was 
at  home.  When  Guy  unfolded  his  problem  the  potter  looked 
thoughtful. 

"I  may  have  the  very  thing  you  want,"  he  said.  "Come 
here." 

He  led  the  way  into  a  small  room  which  he  used  as  a  study, 
and  dragged  into  the  middle  of  the  floor  a  carved  oaken  chest 
bound  with  iron.  There  was  just  enough  carved  work  on  it 
to  add  to  its  look  of  strength.  Two  leopards'  heads  in  wrought 
iron,  with  rings  in  their  jaws,  formed  handles  on  the  ends. 
The  corners  were  shielded  with  rounded  iron  plates  suggesting 


GOLD  OF  BYZANTIUM  273 

oak  leaves.  The  ornamental  wrouglit  iron  hinges,  in  an  oak 
and  acorn  pattern,  stretched  more  than  half  way  across  the 
lid  and  down  the  back.  Iron  bolts  passing  through  staples 
held  the  lid,  and  acorn-headed  nails  studded  it  all  over.  In 
fact,  the  iron  was  so  spread  over  it  in  one  way  and  another 
that  to  break  it  up  one  would  have  needed  a  small  saw  to 
work  in  and  out  among  the  nails,  or  a  stone-crusher.  When 
the  lid  was  thrown  back,  more  iron  appeared,  a  network  of 
small  rods  bedded  into  the  inner  surface  of  lid,  bottom  and 
sides.  The  staples  holding  the  lock  went  clean  through  the 
front  to  the  inside  of  the  box. 

"What  a  piece  of  cunning  workmanship  I"  said  Guy  in  ad- 
miration. "It  is  like  some  of  the  German  work,  and  yet  that 
never  came  over  seas." 

"No,"  said  Wilfrid,  "it  was  done  here  in  the  Sussex  Weald. 
I  had  the  idea  of  it  when  I  came  back  from  France,  and  young 
Dickon,  whom  you  saw  last  night,  made  the  iron-work.  He 
began  with  the  hinges  and  handles,  and  then  Ouentin  of 
Peronne  did  the  wood-work  and  brought  the  chest  here,  and 
Dickon  fitted  in  these  grilles  yesterday." 

"Will  you  sell  it?"  asked  Guy.     The  other  hesitated. 

"I  had  meant  to  keep  it  to  show  the  Abbey  folk,"  he  said. 
"I  had  thought  it  might  get  Dickon  a  job  at  some  cathe- 
dral." 

"We'll  use  it  to  pack  some  gold- work  that's  to  go  to  the 
King,"  averred  Guy  promptly.     "Will  that  content  you*?" 

"It  ought  to,"  smiled  Wilfrid,  well  satisfied,  as  he  took  the 
contents  of  the  coffer  out  and  shut  down  the  lid. 

"What's  your  price?"  asked  Guy. 


274  I^'  T^fJf^  1^^^'"^  OF  THE  GUILD 

Wilfrid  hesitated  again.  It  might  have  been  thouglit  that 
he  was  wondering  how  much  he  could  possibly  ask.  But  it 
was  not  that. 

"I  met  you  in  London,  Master  Bouverel,"  he  said  finally, 
"and  I  understood  you  to  be  a  worker  in  amail." 

Amail  was  the  common  name  for  enamel.  The  corruption 
may  have  come  from  the  fancied  likeness  of  the  work  to  the 
richly  ornamented  "mail,"  or  from  the  fact  that  the  enamel 
covered  the  gold  as  mail  covers  a  man's  body. 

"Amail,  gold  and  silver  work,  and  jewelry,"  said  Guy. 

"Is  it  hard  to  learn?" 

"That  depends,"  returned  the  goldsmith.  "I  was  brought 
up  to  the  craft,  and  I've  been  at  it  ten  year  now  in  Limoges, 
but  I'm  a  prentice  lad  beside  the  masters." 

"Well,  it's  like  this,"  said  the  potter  slowly.  "I  saw  amail 
in  France  and  Limoges  that  fair  made  me  silly.  I  know  a 
bit  of  glass-work,  and  something  of  my  own  trade,  but  this 
was  beyond  me.  I'll  never  be  aught  but  a  potter,  but  if  you 
can  give  me  a  piece  o'  that  I'll  give  you  the  chest  and  what 
you  like  besides  to  make  up  the  price." 

Guy  smiled — he  had  never  suspected  that  Wilfrid  felt  about 
the  enameling  as  he  himself  did.  "You  shall  have  it  and 
welcome,"  he  answered.  "But  why  not  come  to  the  Abbey 
and  learn  to  do  the  work  yourself — if  you  can  leave  your  own 
workshop?  We  can  do  with  more  men,  and  there  might  be 
things  about  the  glazing  and  that  which  would  be  useful  in 
your  pottery." 

Wilfrid  met  the  suggestion  gladly.  He  could  make  ar- 
rangements to  leave  the  pottery  in  the  hands  of  his  head  man 
for  a  while;  for  all  the  work  they  did  was  common  ware  M'hicli 


GOLD  OF  BYZANTIUM  275 

a  man  could  almost  make  in  his  sleep.  If  he  could  study 
some  of  the  secrets  of  glazing  and  color  work  with  Guy,  he 
might  come  back  with  ideas  worth  the  journey. 

He  did  not  tell  Edwitha  anything  about  the  enamel-work. 
That  was  to  be  a  surprise. 

It  was  some  time  before  they  met  again  at  the  Abbey.  The 
gold  arrived  safely  in  due  season,  and  Simon  Gastard  bade 
it  good-by,  with  very  sour  looks.  It  was  placed  in  charge 
of  Brother  Basil  and  Tomaso,  and  Wilfrid,  who  had  been  a 
Master  Potter,  took  his  place  as  apprentice  to  a  new  craft. 
His  experience  as  a  potter  helped  him,  however,  for  the  proc- 
esses were  in  some  ways  rather  alike.  At  last  he  was  ready 
to  make  the  gift  he  intended  for  Edwitha. 

Padraig,  the  young  artist  and  scribe  who  was  making  most 
of  their  designs,  drafted  a  pattern  for  the  work,  but  Wilfrid 
shook  his  head. 

"That  is  too  fine,"  he  said.  "Too  many  flowers  and  leaves 
— finikin  work.  Make  it  simpler.  Every  one  of  those  lines 
means  a  separate  gold  thread.  It  will  be  all  gold  network 
and  no  flowers." 

"As  you  will,"  Padraig  answered.  "It's  the  man  that's  to 
wear  the  cap  that  can  say  does  it  fit."    And  he  tried  again. 

Wilfrid  himself  modified  the  design  in  one  or  two  details, 
for  he  had  made  pottery  long  enough  to  have  ideas  of  his 
own.  The  enamel  was  to  show  dewberry  blossoms  and  fruit, 
white  and  red,  with  green  leaves,  on  a  blue  ground;  the  band 
of  enamel  around  the  gold  cup  was  to  be  in  little  oblong  sec- 
tions divided  by  strips  of  ruby  red.  It  was  not  like  anything 
else  they  had  made.    It  was  as  English  as  a  hawthorn  hedge. 

Very  thin  and  narrow  strips  of  gold  were  softened  in  the 


276  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

fire  until  they  could  be  bent,  in  and  out,  in  a  network  cor- 
responding to  the  outlines  of  the  design.  This  was  fastened 
to  the  groundwork  with  flour  paste.  Then  it  was  heated  until 
the  gold  soldered  itself  on.  Powdered  glass  of  the  red  chosen 
for  the  berries  was  taken  up  in  a  tiny  spoon  made  of  a  quill, 
and  ladled  carefully  into  each  minute  compartment,  and 
packed  iirml}-  down.  Then  it  was  put  into  a  copper  case  with 
small  holes  in  the  top,  smooth  inside,  and  rough  like  a  grater 
outside,  to  let  out  the  hot  air  and  keep  out  hot  ashes.  The 
case  had  a  long  handle,  and  coals  were  piled  all  around  it 
in  a  wall.  When  it  had  been  heated  long  enough  to  melt 
the  glass  it  was  taken  out  and  set  aside  to  cool.  This  took 
some  hours.  When  it  was  cold  the  glass  had  melted  and 
sunk  into  the  compartment  as  dissolved  sugar  sinks  in  a  glass. 
More  glass  was  put  in  and  packed  down,  and  the  process 
repeated.  When  no  more  could  possibly  be  heaped  on  the 
jewel-like  bit  of  ruby  glass  inside  the  tiny  gold  wall,  the 
white  blossoms,  green  leaves,  blue  ground,  and  strips  of 
deeper  red,  were  made  in  turn.  Only  one  color  was  handled 
at  a  time.  If  the  glass  used  in  the  separate  layers  was  not 
quite  the  same  shade,  it  gave  a  certain  depth  and  changeful- 
ness  of  color.  Overheating,  haste  or  carelessness  would  ruin 
the  whole.  Only  the  patient,  intent  care  of  a  M^orker  who 
loved  tvtry  step  of  the  work  would  make  the  right  Limoges 
enamel.  This  was  one  of  the  simpler  processes  which  are  still 
known. 

The  polishing  was  yet  to  be  done.  A  goatskin  was  stretched 
smooth  on  a  wooden  table;  the  medallion  was  fixed  in  a  piece 
of  wax  for  a  handle,  and  polished  first  on  a  smooth  piece  of 


GOLD  OF  BYZANTIUiM  277 

bone  and  then  on  the  goatskin.  Each  medallion  was  polished 
in  turn  until  if  half  the  work  were  wet  and  half  dry  the 
eye  could  detect  no  difference. 

Alan  brought  his  mother,  Dame  Cicel)^  to  the  glass-house 
while  Wilfrid  was  still  at  work  on  the  polishing,  and  after  she 
had  seen  the  great  window  they  had  made  for  the  Abbey 
church  at  the  King's  order,  she  paused  to  look  at  the  enamel. 

"Tha'lt  wear  out  thy  ten  finger-bones,  lad,"  said  she.  "I'm 
pleased  that  my  cheeses  don't  have  to  be  rubbed  i'  that  road. 
They  say  that  women's  work's  never  done,  but  good  wheaten 
bread  now — mix  meal  and  leaven,  and  salt  and  water,  and 
the  batch'U  rise  itself." 

"There's  no  place  for  a  hasty  man  in  the  work  of  making 
amail,  mother,"  drawled  her  son.  "Nor  in  most  other  crafts, 
to  my  mind." 

"My  father  told  me  once,"  quoth  Wilfrid,  smiling,  "that 
no  work  is  worth  the  doing  for  ourselves  alone.  We  were 
making  a  wall  round  the  sheepfold,  and  I,  being  but  a  lad, 
wondered  at  the  tugging  and  bedding  of  great  stones  when 
half  the  size  would  ha'  served.  He  wasn't  a  stout  man  neither 
— it  was  the  spring  before  he  died.  He  told  me  it  was  'for  the 
honor  of  the  land.'  I  can  see  it  all  now — the  sill}-  sheep  stray- 
ing over  the  sweet  spring  turf,  gray  old  Pincher  guarding 
them,  the  old  Roman  wall  that  we  could  not  ha'  grubbed  up 
if  we  would,  and  our  wall  joining  it,  to  last  after  we  were 
dead.  That  bit  o'  wall's  been  a  monument  to  me  all  these 
years." 

"You're  not  one  to  scamp  work  whatever  you're  at,"  Guy 
declared  heartily,  "but  that  cup's  due  to  be  finished  by  to- 
morrow." 


278  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

When  the  wreath  of  blossoms  was  in  place  around  the  shal- 
low golden  bowl,  the  smaller  garland  around  the  base,  and 
the  stem  was  encircled  with  bands  of  ruby,  azure  and  emerald, 
it  was  a  chalice  fit  for  the  Queen  of  Fairyland  if  she  were 
also  a  Sussex  lass.  Brother  Basil,  whose  eye  was  never  at 
fault,  pronounced  it  perfect.  It  was  not  like  anything  else 
that  they  had  made,  but  that,  he  said,  was  no  matter. 

"When  Abbot  Suger  of  St.  Denys  made  his  master-works," 
Guy  observed  as  he  put  away  his  tools  for  the  night,  "he  did 
not  bring  workmen  from  Byzantium;  he  taught  Frenchmen  to 
do  their  own  work.  And  an  Englishman  is  as  good  as  a 
Frenchman  any  day." 


THE  WATCHWORD 

When  from  the  lonely  beacon  height 

The   leaping  flame  flared  high, 
When  bells  rang  out  into  the  night 

Where  ships  at  anchor  lie, 
There  orderly  in  all  men's  sight, 

With  sword  or  pike  in  hand, 
Stood  serf  and  craftsman,  squire  and  knight 

For  the  Honor  of  the  Land. 

When  war  had  passed,  and  Peace  at  last 

Ruled  over  earth  and   sky. 
The  bonds  of  ancient  law  held  fast, — 

The  faith  which  cannot  die. 
Ah,  call  us  aliens  though  you  may — 

We  hear  and  understand, 
The  deathless  watchword  wakes  to-day,— 

The  Honor  of  the  Land  I 


XXII 
COCKATRICE  EGGS 

HOW    TOMASO    THE    PHYSICIAN    AND    BASIL    THE    SCRIBE    HELD 
THE   KEYS  OF   EMPIRE 

BROTHER  BASIL  and  Tomaso  of  Padua  sat  in  the 
glass-house  crypt,  with  an  oaken  chest  heavily  bound 
with  iron  between  them.  It  had  been  brought  in,  and 
the  ropes  about  it  loosened,  by  sweating  varlets  who 
looked  with  awe  at  the  crucibles,  retorts,  mortars,  braziers, 
furnaces,  beakers  and  other  paraphernalia  of  what  they  be- 
lieved to  be  alchemy.  They  had  not  agreed  about  the  con- 
tents of  that  coffer.  Samkin  held  that  it  was  too  heavy  to 
be  anything  but  gold.  Hob  maintained  that  if  these  wise 
men  could  make  gold  there  was  no  point  in  sending  them  a 
chest  full.  Tom  Dowgate  ended  the  argument  by  inquiring 
which  of  them  had  ever  handled  gold  enough  to  judge  its 
weight,  and  reminding  them  of  the  weight  of  a  millstone  when 
tugged  up  hill. 

It  was  gold,  however.  When  doors  were  bolted  and  win- 
dows shuttered  the  two  philosophers  remained  silent  for  a 
few  moments,  Tomaso  stroking  his  white  beard.  Brother  Basil 
fingering  his  rosary.  Then  the  Paduan  reached  forward  and 
tilted  back  the  lid.  Under  a  layer  of  parchment,  leather  and 
tow  scraps  used  for  packing,  the  bezants  lay  snug  and  orderly 

281 


282  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

beneath,  shining  significantly  in  the  light  of  the  bronze  lamp. 
There  was  coin  enough  in  that  chest  to  turn  the  scale,  perhaps, 
in  the  next  war  in  Christendom, — so  the  Chancellor  had  said 
when  he  saw  it  go. 

Brother  Basil  weighed  one  of  the  bright  new-minted  pieces 
on  his  iinger-end,   thoughtfully. 

"I  wonder  what  this  bit  of  metal  will  do  in  England,"  he 
mused.  "Strange — that  a  thing  so  easily  destroyed  should 
have  such  power  over  the  hearts  of  men." 

"It  is  like  a  Devil,"  said  the  unperturbed  physician.  "He 
does  not  come  inside  a  man's  heart  unless  he  is  invited.  Gold 
as  you  will  employ  it  means  the  upbuilding  of  those  crafts 
that  make  men — not  serfs.  We  shall  make  our  treasure  in- 
stead of  hiring  troopers  to  steal  it,  if  your  schools  prosper." 

Brother  Basil  sighed.  "I  hope  so.  It  is  hard  to  see  pages 
of  priceless  wisdom,  scribed  and  illumined  by  loving  and 
patient  labor,  scattered  to  the  winds  in  the  sack  of  a  town. 
It  made  my  soul  ache  to  hear  the  monks  of  Ireland  speak 
of  the  past.  I  believe  that  the  King  means  to  protect  the 
Irish  Abbeys,  but  this  is  a  hard  age  for  a  peacemaker." 

"The  Plantagenets  were  never  scantly  supplied  with 
brains,"  observed  Tomaso  dryly.  "I  think,  myself,  that  the 
King  will  use  the  sword  only  to  enforce  the  law,  and  that 
the  robber  barons  are  going  to  have  a  sad  time  of  it  hence- 
forth. Perhaps  Henry  is  more  in  tune  with  the  age  than  you 
think.  Frederick  Barbarossa  is  coming  to  grips  with  the  Lom- 
bard cities,  and  it  will  be  mailed  knight  against  Commune  this 
time.    Meanwhile,  let  us  get  to  work." 

The  gold  was  unpacked  and  hidden  safely  in  the  hollow 
of  the  wall  behind  the  turning  stone.     When  the  younger 


COCKATRICE  EGGS  283 

men  arrived  the  chest  was  carried  up  the  narrow  stair  and 
refilled  with  various  precious  or  fragile  things  which  it  was 
well  to  have  out  of  the  way.  The  furnaces  were  set  alight  and 
the  working  day  began. 

A  fairy  spell  seemed  to  possess  the  fires  and  the  crucibles. 
Brother  Basil,  working  at  a  medallion  of  enamel,  gave  a  de- 
lighted exclamation  as  he  held  up  the  finished  work.  The  red 
roses  of  Saint  Dorothea  were  like  elfin  blossoms. 

"The  saint  herself  might  have  come  from  Alexandria  to 
help  us,"  he  said. 

Guy,  who  never  spared  trouble,  had  been  finishing  a  chalice 
begun  before  his  recent  journey  to  the  south.  Even  the  critical 
eye  of  the  Abbot  found  no  flaw  in  its  beauty.  The  little 
group  of  artists  had  worked  free  from  the  Oriental  stiffness 
and  unreality  of  their  first  models.  Their  designs  were  con- 
ventional, but  the  working  out  was  like  the  quaintly  formal 
primness  of  wild  flowers  in  garlands.  The  traditional  shape 
might  be  much  the  same,  but  there  was  a  living  freshness  and 
grace,  a  richness  of  color  and  strength  of  line,  which  were  an 
improvement  on  the  model. 

Alan,  who  seldom  talked  of  an  idea  until  he  had  tried  it 
out,  betook  himself  to  a  corner  and  began  doing  odd  things 
with  his  blowpipe.  The  others  went  to  work  on  a  reliquar5% 
and  paid  no  attention  to  him  until  their  work  was  well  under 
way.  Then  there  was  a  chorus  of  admiration.  The  sheet  of 
glass  just  ready  for  the  annealing  was  of  the  true  heavenly 
azure  that  Brother  Basil  had  tried  in  vain  to  get. 

"You  kept  the  rule,  I  hope?"  inquired  the  monk  with  some 
anxiety.     "We  cannot  lose  that  glass  now  that  we  have  it." 

Alan  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other.     "It  wasn't  my 


284  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

rule, — that  is,  not  all  of  it,"  he  answered  bluntly.  "I  read  a 
part  on  this  torn  page  here,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  might 
work  out  the  rest  by  this,"  he  showed  a  chalked  fonnula  on 
the  wall.    "I  tried  it,  and  it  came  right." 

Tomaso  caught  up  the  scrap  of  parchment.  "What?"  he 
said  sharply.     "Where  did  this  come  from?" 

It  was  a  piece  that  had  been  used  for  the  packing  of  the 
gold.  Parchment  was  not  cheap,  and  all  the  bits  had  been 
swept  into  a  basket.  Although  covered  with  writing,  they 
could  be  scraped  clean  and  used  again.  The  Paduan  bent 
over  the  rubbish  and  picked  out  fragment  after  fragment, 
comparing  them  with  keen  interest. 

"No  harm  is  done,"  he  said  as  he  met  Alan's  troubled  gaze, 
"there  may  be  something  else  worth  keeping  here.  At  any 
rate  you  shall  make  more  blue  glass.  Keep  the  formula  safe 
and  secret." 

There  are  days  in  all  men's  work  which  are  remembered 
while  memory  endures — hours  when  the  inspiration  of  a  new 
thought  is  like  a  song  of  gladness,  and  the  mind  forgets  the 
drag  of  past  failure.  The  little  group  in  the  Abbey  glass-house 
and  the  adjoining  rooms  where  the  goldsmiths  worked,  were 
possessed  by  this  mood  of  delight.  The  chalice  that  Guy 
had  finished,  the  deep  azure  glass  and  the  reliquary  represented 
more  real  achievement  than  they  had  to  show  for  any  day  in 
the  past  six  months.  There  was  just  the  difference  that  sep- 
arates the  perfect  from  the  not  quite  perfect.  Their  dreams 
were  coming  true. 

The  young  men  walked  over  the  fields  to  supper  at  the 
Abbey  farm,  as  usual,  and  Dame  Cicely,  as  usual,  stood  in  the 
door  to  greet  them. 


'AND    THERE    GOES    WHAT    WOULD    SEAT    THE    KING    OF    ENGL  \XD    ON 
THE  THRONE  OF  THE  CAESARS,'   QUOTH  TOMASO"— P<7-c'  293 


.iL 


COCKATRICE  EGGS  285 

"How  goes  the  work,  lads'?"  she  asked,  and  then  caught 
Alan  by  the  shoulder,  crying,  "No  need  to  answer.  I  know 
by  the  face  on  thee.  What  hast  been  doing  to  make  it  shine 
so?" 

"Only  finished  a  piece  o'  work,  mother,"  said  Padraig  with 
a  grin.  "It  takes  some  men  a  long  time  to  do  that.  If  they 
would  bide  just  this  side  of  a  masterpiece  they'd  save  'emselves 
trouble.    But  they  will  spend  all  their  force  on  the  last  step." 

"Aye,"  said  Alan,  "better  leap  clean  over  the  Strid  while 
you're  about  it." 

And  for  once  Padraig  had  no  more  to  say. 

Oddly  enough  Brother  Basil  also  thought  of  the  Strid  that 
night — the  deep  and  dangerous  whirlpool  in  the  grim  North 
Country  had  haunted  him  ever  since  he  saw  it.  He  and 
Tomaso  came  back,  after  dark,  to  the  crypt,  and  spread  out 
the  torn  manuscripts  by  the  light  of  two  flambeaux  in  the 
wall.  None  of  the  pages  were  whole,  and  the  script  was  in 
Latin,  Arabic,  Greek  and  Italian,  and  not  all  in  the  same 
handwriting.  Both  believed  that  in  searching  the  heap  for 
secrets  of  their  arts  they  had  stumbled  on  something  danger- 
ous. 

"I  believe  I  know  where  these  came  from,"  Tomaso  said, 
when  they  had  patched  together  three  or  four  pages.  "The}' 
are  part  of  the  scripts  of  Archiater  of  Byzantium,  who  was 
taken  for  a  wizard  in  Goslar  ten  years  ago.  I  thought  that  all 
his  books  were  burned.     There  was  talk  enough  about  it." 

"But  what  are  these  prescriptions'?"  asked  the  monk,  puz- 
zled. 

"You  would  know  by  this  time,"  said  the  Paduan  grimly, 
"if  that  flame-crested  imp  of  yours,  Padraig,  had  been  the  one 


286  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

to  experiment.  By  following  the  directions  on  this  bit  of 
vellum  he  might  have  blown  us  all  into  the  other  world. 
Luckily  only  three  of  these  formulae  are  of  that  nature.  The 
others  are  quite  safe  for  your  young  disciples  to  play  with. 
But  these  we  will  keep  to  ourselves."  He  laid  a  stained 
brownish  piece  of  sheepskin  apart  from  the  others  and  two 
smaller  ones  beside  it.  "These  are  directions  for  the  manu- 
facture of  aqua  regia,  Spanish  gold,  and  something  which 
Archiater  called  Apples  of  Sodom.  Of  a  certainty  they  are 
fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  those  apples." 

Brother  Basil  had  lost  color.  This  really  was  a  trifle  too 
near  necromancy  to  be  pleasant.  Spanish  gold  was  a  Saracen 
invention,  said  to  be  made  of  most  unholy  materials,  and 
he  had  heard  of  a  wizard  being  carried  bodily  oif  on  the  wind 
after  dealing  in  the  others. 

"We  will  carry  on  our  experiments,"  Tomaso  continued, 
"in  the  cellars  of  my  tower,  if  you  please.  The  young  ones 
will  be  only  too  glad  to  be  rid  of  us.  If  any  one  meddled 
here  we  should  risk  all  we  have  done  and  the  lives  of  our 
pupils.  If  we  make  any  blunders  working  by  ourselves — 
well — I  sometimes  think  that  I  have  lived  a  long  time  al- 
ready." 

The  disciples  were  too  well  trained  to  ask  any  questions, 
but  they  were  somewhat  mystified  by  the  proceedings  which 
ensued.  An  underground  chamber  straitly  walled  in  with 
masonry  was  fitted  up,  and  the  smells  that  clung  to  the  gar- 
ments of  Brother  Basil  when  he  emerged  were  more  like  brim- 
stone than  anything  else.  Tomaso  was  never  seen  at  all. 
Meanwhile  the  newly  discovered  formulse  for  glass  and  enamel 
work  had  been  turned  over  to  the  workers  in  the  glass-house, 


COCKATRICE  EGGS  287 

with  permission  to  buy  whatever  material  was  needed,  Pad- 
raig  and  Guy  went  to  London,  and  came  back  with  precious 
packets  of  rare  gums,  dyes,  minerals,  oils  and  salts,  not  to  be 
found  or  made  at  the  Abbey. 

Meanwhile  the  monk  and  the  physician  worked  with  ab- 
sorbed intentness  at  their  crucibles  and  stills.  There  was  a 
slight  explosion  one  evening,  and  a  country  lout  of  the  neigh- 
borhood told  of  it.  Next  day  a  neighboring  farmer  ventured 
to  ask  Padraig  what  was  going  on  in  the  ruined  tower. 

"Why,"  said  Padraig  soberly,  "we  are  raising  a  brood  of 
hobgoblins  for  the  King.     Did  ye  not  know*?" 

The  making  of  sulphuric  acid,  nitric  acid  and  their  com- 
pounds would  have  been  risky  business  in  any  age,  with  the 
primitive  apparatus  that  the  two  investigators  had.  They 
were  furthermore  made  cautious  by  the  fact  that  they  did  not 
know  what  might  happen  if  they  made  the  least  error.  It  was 
midnight  after  a  long  and  nerve-racking  day  when  they  became 
satisfied  that  they  had  the  secrets  of  at  least  three  perilous 
mixtures  in  the  hollow  of  their  hands. 

"I  think  the  King  would  give  seven  such  chests  as  the 
one  he  sent,  if  he  knew  what  we  know,"  said  Brother  Basil 
musingly. 

"He  has  the  value  of  that  chest  already,  in  the  rose  window 
and  the  great  window,  the  monstrance,  the  chalice  and  the 
cups,"  Tomaso  answered,  his  sense  of  money  values  undimmed. 
"They  are  as  good  in  their  way  as  Limoges  itself  can  do." 

"I  wish  that  we  had  tidings  from  London,"  said  the  monk 
thoughtfully.  "If  Lombardy  loses  in  this  war  the  Emperor 
will  not  stop  there.     He  has  said  that  he  will  obey  no  Pope 


288  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

on  earth,  only  Saint  Peter  and  the  others  in  heaven.  He  is 
neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind,  that  man." 

"Henr)^  does  not  want  to  fight — that  is  certain,"  said  To- 
maso.  "He  desires  only  to  keep  for  his  children  what  he  has 
already — Anjou,  Normandy,  Aquitaine;  and  most  of  all  Eng- 
land, It  would  take  a  greater  than  the  Conqueror  to  rob  the 
Plantagenets  of  this  kingdom." 

"What  do  you  think  will  happen  in  Lombardy"?"  asked  the 
other. 

"The  League  of  Lombard  cities  will  fight  to  the  death," 
said  Tomaso  quietly.  "The  Communes  are  fighting  for  their 
lives,  and  cornered  wolves  are  fierce.  Neither  Sicily  nor 
France  is  on  Frederick's  side,  although  they  may  be,  if  he 
wins.  If  he  can  get  Henry  the  Lion  of  Saxony  to  fight  under 
his  banner,  it  may  turn  the  scale." 

"And  Henry  the  Lion  married  our  Henry's  daughter  Ma- 
tilda," said  Brother  Basil.     Tomaso  nodded. 

"Without  Saxony,"  the  Paduan  added,  "I  know  that  not 
more'  than  two  thousand  men  will  follow  Barbarossa  into 
Italy,  and  not  more  than  half  are  mailed  knights.  The  Lom- 
bard army  is  more  or  less  light  cavalry  and  infantry.  Here 
in  this  cellar  we  have  such  weapons  as  no  King  has  dreamed 
of — blazing  leaping  serpents,  metal-devouring  and  poison- 
breathing  spirits,  pomegranates  full  of  the  seeds  of  destmction. 
These — in  the  hands  of  the  Communes " 

"Would  turn  Christendom  into  the  kingdom  of  Satan," 
said  Brother  Basil  as  the  physician  paused.  "If  we  were  to 
give  the  secret  to  Henry's  clerks,  or  even  if  we  ourselves 
handled  the  work  in  London  Tower,  how  long  would  it  be 


COCKATRICE  EGGS  289 

before  treachery  or  thievery  carried  it  overseas?  Are  we  to 
spread  ruin  over  the  world*?" 

"I  thought  you  would  see  it  as  I  did,"  said  Tomaso  smiling. 

The  ground  vibrated  to  the  tread  of  hoofs,  and  a  horn 
sounded  outside  the  window. 

"That  is  Ranulph,"  said  Tomaso.  "I  thought  he  might 
come  to-night.    He  will  have  news." 

As  Ranulph  came  up  the  path,  travel-dusty  and  weary, 
lights  twinkled  out  in  the  Abbey  and  the  Abbey  Farm. 

"The  Emperor  has  lost,"  said  the  troubadour.  "There 
was  a  battle  at  Legnano,  and  the  German  knights  scattered 
the  Italian  cavalry  at  the  first  onset,  but  when  they  met  the 
infantry  massed  about  the  Carocchio  they  broke.  The  Em- 
peror was  wounded  and  fled.  Without  Henry  of  Saxony  the 
battle  was  lost  before  it  began.  They  say  that  there  will  be 
a  treaty  at  Venice.     The  Communes  have  won." 

"Come  here,  my  son,"  said  Tomaso,  turning  back  into  the 
tower.  "We  have  found  an  armory  of  new  and  deadly  weap- 
ons. You  have  heard  of  Archiater's  apples'?  We  can  make 
them.  Shall  we  give  the  Plantagenets  to  eat  of  the  Tree  of 
Knowledge?" 

Ranulph's  eyes  darkened  and  narrowed.  His  quick  mind 
leaped  forward  to  the  consequences  of  such  a  revelation. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "Too  much  evil  ambition  lives  among 
Normans.  It  might  be  safe  with  the  King — and  maybe  with 
Richard,  for  he  loves  chivalry  and  knightly  honor — but  John 
loves  nothing  but  his  own  will.  Let  us  have  peace  in  Chris- 
tendom while  we  can." 

"Shall  we  bum  the  parchment  then?"  asked  Brother  Basil. 


290  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  GUILD 

"Nay — keep  it  in  cipher.  Let  a  few  trusted  men  know  the 
key." 

"We  will  trust  our  lads,"  Brother  Basil  said.  "Let  us  ask 
them." 

Alan  and  Padraig,  Wilfrid,  Guy,  and  David,  came  up 
the  path.  Brother  Basil  explained  the  discovery.  They  had 
already  heard  the  news  of  the  Lombard  victory  from  Giovanni, 
who  had  ridden  with  the  troubadour  and  stopped  at  the  Abbey 
Farm. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  these  mysteries'?"  Tomaso  asked, 
holding  out  one  of  the  deadly  little  grenades.  "You  must 
remember  that  some  one  else  may  find  out  the  secret  without 
our  help.  It  is  true  that  the  man  who  did  would  risk  being 
burned  for  a  wizard  in  some  places;  still,  there  is  little  that 
men  will  not  dare  in  the  search  for  knowledge." 

"Let  them  find  it  out  then,"  spoke  Padraig  in  sudden  heat. 
"We  have  had  enough  of  war  in  our  time.  Let  us  kill  this 
cockatrice  in  the  egg." 

"These  would  pay  some  debts," — Alan's  hard  young  North- 
country  face  grew  stem.  He  was  thinking  of  tales  which 
Angelo  had  told  him  in  his  boyhood. 

"God  can  pay  debts  without  money,"  said  Brother  Basil 
gently. 

"We  are  not  ready,"  Guy  averred.  "We  need  time  to  train 
men  and  to  let  the  land  breathe.  After  that  it  may  be  safe 
to  use  the  secret — not  now." 

"That  cat's  best  in  a  sack,"  David  commented  shrewdly. 

"Padraig  is  right,"  said  Wilfrid.  "We  have  had  enough 
of  war  in  our  time.     We  will  keep  this  monster  prisoned." 

They  came  to  an  agreement.    Padraig  was  to  make  copies  in 


COCKATRICE  EGGS  291 

cipher  of  the  formula.  After  ten  years,  or  on  his  deathbed 
should  he  die  within  that  time,  each  might  give  the  master- 
words  and  the  rules  to  some  comrade  who  could  be  trusted. 
They  were  all  to  swear  never  to  use  their  knowledge  for  gain, 
or  ambition,  or  vanity,  but  for  the  good  of  their  craft,  the 
glory  of  God  and  the  honor  of  the  land. 

"Before  we  destroy  that  which  we  have  made,"  said  Brother 
Basil,  "we  will  show  you  in  part  what  it  can  do." 

Metals  dissolved  like  wet  salt.  Wood  and  leather  were 
bitten  through  as  by  gnawing  rats.  A  fire  was  kindled  on  the 
old  tower,  and  a  cone-like  swarm  of  giant  wasps  of  fire  went 
spluttering  and  boiling  up  into  the  darkness.  The  apples  of 
Sodom  were  planted  under  a  troublesome  ledge  of  rock,  and 
reduced  it  to  rubble. 

"And  there  goes  what  would  seat  the  King  of  England  on 
the  throne  of  the  Casars,"  quoth  Tomaso.  The  last  waver- 
ing flare  was  dying  into  the  night,  and  he  stood  with  Ranulph 
and  Padraig  on  the  top  of  the  tower,  under  the  stars. 

"He  might  have  sat  there  before,  if  he  had  chosen,"  mused 
Ranulph.  Padraig  was  silent.  Matteo  had  fallen  beside  the 
Carocchio,  and  his  heart  was  sad. 

Tomaso  laid  a  hand  on  Ranulph's  shoulder. 

"An  empire  is  a  forest  of  slow  nurture,  beloved  of  my  soul," 
he  said  gently,  "and  it  does — not — grow — by — conflagra- 
tions." 


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